บทที่ บทที่ 3 · Chapter III. THE AUDIENCE

. Chapter III. THE AUDIENCE

M. de Tréville was at the moment in rather ill-humor, nevertheless he

saluted the young man politely, who bowed to the very ground; and he

smiled on receiving D’Artagnan’s response, the Béarnese accent of which

recalled to him at the same time his youth and his country—a double

remembrance which makes a man smile at all ages; but stepping toward

the antechamber and making a sign to D’Artagnan with his hand, as if to

ask his permission to finish with others before he began with him, he

called three times, with a louder voice at each time, so that he ran

through the intervening tones between the imperative accent and the

angry accent.

“Athos! Porthos! Aramis!”

The two Musketeers with whom we have already made acquaintance, and who

answered to the last of these three names, immediately quitted the

group of which they had formed a part, and advanced toward the cabinet,

the door of which closed after them as soon as they had entered. Their

appearance, although it was not quite at ease, excited by its

carelessness, at once full of dignity and submission, the admiration of

D’Artagnan, who beheld in these two men demigods, and in their leader

an Olympian Jupiter, armed with all his thunders.

When the two Musketeers had entered; when the door was closed behind

them; when the buzzing murmur of the antechamber, to which the summons

which had been made had doubtless furnished fresh food, had

recommenced; when M. de Tréville had three or four times paced in

silence, and with a frowning brow, the whole length of his cabinet,

passing each time before Porthos and Aramis, who were as upright and

silent as if on parade—he stopped all at once full in front of them,

and covering them from head to foot with an angry look, “Do you know

what the king said to me,” cried he, “and that no longer ago than

yesterday evening—do you know, gentlemen?”

“No,” replied the two Musketeers, after a moment’s silence, “no, sir,

we do not.”

“But I hope that you will do us the honor to tell us,” added Aramis, in

his politest tone and with his most graceful bow.

“He told me that he should henceforth recruit his Musketeers from among

the Guards of Monsieur the Cardinal.”

“The Guards of the cardinal! And why so?” asked Porthos, warmly.

“Because he plainly perceives that his piquette* stands in need of

being enlivened by a mixture of good wine.”

* A watered liquor, made from the second pressing of the grape.

The two Musketeers reddened to the whites of their eyes. D’Artagnan did

not know where he was, and wished himself a hundred feet underground.

“Yes, yes,” continued M. de Tréville, growing warmer as he spoke, “and

his majesty was right; for, upon my honor, it is true that the

Musketeers make but a miserable figure at court. The cardinal related

yesterday while playing with the king, with an air of condolence very

displeasing to me, that the day before yesterday those _damned

Musketeers_, those _daredevils_—he dwelt upon those words with an

ironical tone still more displeasing to me—those _braggarts_, added he,

glancing at me with his tiger-cat’s eye, had made a riot in the Rue

Férou in a cabaret, and that a party of his Guards (I thought he was

going to laugh in my face) had been forced to arrest the rioters!

_Morbleu!_ You must know something about it. Arrest Musketeers! You

were among them—you were! Don’t deny it; you were recognized, and the

cardinal named you. But it’s all my fault; yes, it’s all my fault,

because it is myself who selects my men. You, Aramis, why the devil did

you ask me for a uniform when you would have been so much better in a

cassock? And you, Porthos, do you only wear such a fine golden baldric

to suspend a sword of straw from it? And Athos—I don’t see Athos. Where

is he?”

“Ill—”

“Very ill, say you? And of what malady?”

“It is feared that it may be the smallpox, sir,” replied Porthos,

desirous of taking his turn in the conversation; “and what is serious

is that it will certainly spoil his face.”

“The smallpox! That’s a great story to tell me, Porthos! Sick of the

smallpox at his age! No, no; but wounded without doubt, killed,

perhaps. Ah, if I knew! S’blood! Messieurs Musketeers, I will not have

this haunting of bad places, this quarreling in the streets, this

swordplay at the crossways; and above all, I will not have occasion

given for the cardinal’s Guards, who are brave, quiet, skillful men who

never put themselves in a position to be arrested, and who, besides,

never allow themselves to be arrested, to laugh at you! I am sure of

it—they would prefer dying on the spot to being arrested or taking back

a step. To save yourselves, to scamper away, to flee—that is good for

the king’s Musketeers!”

Porthos and Aramis trembled with rage. They could willingly have

strangled M. de Tréville, if, at the bottom of all this, they had not

felt it was the great love he bore them which made him speak thus. They

stamped upon the carpet with their feet; they bit their lips till the

blood came, and grasped the hilts of their swords with all their might.

All without had heard, as we have said, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis

called, and had guessed, from M. de Tréville’s tone of voice, that he

was very angry about something. Ten curious heads were glued to the

tapestry and became pale with fury; for their ears, closely applied to

the door, did not lose a syllable of what he said, while their mouths

repeated as he went on, the insulting expressions of the captain to all

the people in the antechamber. In an instant, from the door of the

cabinet to the street gate, the whole hôtel was boiling.

“Ah! The king’s Musketeers are arrested by the Guards of the cardinal,

are they?” continued M. de Tréville, as furious at heart as his

soldiers, but emphasizing his words and plunging them, one by one, so

to say, like so many blows of a stiletto, into the bosoms of his

auditors. “What! Six of his Eminence’s Guards arrest six of his

Majesty’s Musketeers! _Morbleu!_ My part is taken! I will go straight

to the Louvre; I will give in my resignation as captain of the king’s

Musketeers to take a lieutenancy in the cardinal’s Guards, and if he

refuses me, _morbleu!_ I will turn abbé.”

At these words, the murmur without became an explosion; nothing was to

be heard but oaths and blasphemies. The _morbleus_, the _sang Dieus_,

the _morts touts les diables_, crossed one another in the air.

D’Artagnan looked for some tapestry behind which he might hide himself,

and felt an immense inclination to crawl under the table.

“Well, my Captain,” said Porthos, quite beside himself, “the truth is

that we were six against six. But we were not captured by fair means;

and before we had time to draw our swords, two of our party were dead,

and Athos, grievously wounded, was very little better. For you know

Athos. Well, Captain, he endeavored twice to get up, and fell again

twice. And we did not surrender—no! They dragged us away by force. On

the way we escaped. As for Athos, they believed him to be dead, and

left him very quiet on the field of battle, not thinking it worth the

trouble to carry him away. That’s the whole story. What the devil,

Captain, one cannot win all one’s battles! The great Pompey lost that

of Pharsalia; and Francis the First, who was, as I have heard say, as

good as other folks, nevertheless lost the Battle of Pavia.”

“And I have the honor of assuring you that I killed one of them with

his own sword,” said Aramis; “for mine was broken at the first parry.

Killed him, or poniarded him, sir, as is most agreeable to you.”

“I did not know that,” replied M. de Tréville, in a somewhat softened

tone. “The cardinal exaggerated, as I perceive.”

“But pray, sir,” continued Aramis, who, seeing his captain become

appeased, ventured to risk a prayer, “do not say that Athos is wounded.

He would be in despair if that should come to the ears of the king; and

as the wound is very serious, seeing that after crossing the shoulder

it penetrates into the chest, it is to be feared—”

At this instant the tapestry was raised and a noble and handsome head,

but frightfully pale, appeared under the fringe.

“Athos!” cried the two Musketeers.

“Athos!” repeated M. de Tréville himself.

“You have sent for me, sir,” said Athos to M. de Tréville, in a feeble

yet perfectly calm voice, “you have sent for me, as my comrades inform

me, and I have hastened to receive your orders. I am here; what do you

want with me?”

And at these words, the Musketeer, in irreproachable costume, belted as

usual, with a tolerably firm step, entered the cabinet. M. de Tréville,

moved to the bottom of his heart by this proof of courage, sprang

toward him.

“I was about to say to these gentlemen,” added he, “that I forbid my

Musketeers to expose their lives needlessly; for brave men are very

dear to the king, and the king knows that his Musketeers are the

bravest on the earth. Your hand, Athos!”

And without waiting for the answer of the newcomer to this proof of

affection, M. de Tréville seized his right hand and pressed it with all

his might, without perceiving that Athos, whatever might be his

self-command, allowed a slight murmur of pain to escape him, and if

possible, grew paler than he was before.

The door had remained open, so strong was the excitement produced by

the arrival of Athos, whose wound, though kept as a secret, was known

to all. A burst of satisfaction hailed the last words of the captain;

and two or three heads, carried away by the enthusiasm of the moment,

appeared through the openings of the tapestry. M. de Tréville was about

to reprehend this breach of the rules of etiquette, when he felt the

hand of Athos, who had rallied all his energies to contend against

pain, at length overcome by it, fell upon the floor as if he were dead.

“A surgeon!” cried M. de Tréville, “mine! The king’s! The best! A

surgeon! Or, s’blood, my brave Athos will die!”

At the cries of M. de Tréville, the whole assemblage rushed into the

cabinet, he not thinking to shut the door against anyone, and all

crowded round the wounded man. But all this eager attention might have

been useless if the doctor so loudly called for had not chanced to be

in the hôtel. He pushed through the crowd, approached Athos, still

insensible, and as all this noise and commotion inconvenienced him

greatly, he required, as the first and most urgent thing, that the

Musketeer should be carried into an adjoining chamber. Immediately M.

de Tréville opened and pointed the way to Porthos and Aramis, who bore

their comrade in their arms. Behind this group walked the surgeon; and

behind the surgeon the door closed.

The cabinet of M. de Tréville, generally held so sacred, became in an

instant the annex of the antechamber. Everyone spoke, harangued, and

vociferated, swearing, cursing, and consigning the cardinal and his

Guards to all the devils.

An instant after, Porthos and Aramis re-entered, the surgeon and M. de

Tréville alone remaining with the wounded.

At length, M. de Tréville himself returned. The injured man had

recovered his senses. The surgeon declared that the situation of the

Musketeer had nothing in it to render his friends uneasy, his weakness

having been purely and simply caused by loss of blood.

Then M. de Tréville made a sign with his hand, and all retired except

D’Artagnan, who did not forget that he had an audience, and with the

tenacity of a Gascon remained in his place.

When all had gone out and the door was closed, M. de Tréville, on

turning round, found himself alone with the young man. The event which

had occurred had in some degree broken the thread of his ideas. He

inquired what was the will of his persevering visitor. D’Artagnan then

repeated his name, and in an instant recovering all his remembrances of

the present and the past, M. de Tréville grasped the situation.

“Pardon me,” said he, smiling, “pardon me my dear compatriot, but I had

wholly forgotten you. But what help is there for it! A captain is

nothing but a father of a family, charged with even a greater

responsibility than the father of an ordinary family. Soldiers are big

children; but as I maintain that the orders of the king, and more

particularly the orders of the cardinal, should be executed—”

D’Artagnan could not restrain a smile. By this smile M. de Tréville

judged that he had not to deal with a fool, and changing the

conversation, came straight to the point.

“I respected your father very much,” said he. “What can I do for the

son? Tell me quickly; my time is not my own.”

“Monsieur,” said D’Artagnan, “on quitting Tarbes and coming hither, it

was my intention to request of you, in remembrance of the friendship

which you have not forgotten, the uniform of a Musketeer; but after all

that I have seen during the last two hours, I comprehend that such a

favor is enormous, and tremble lest I should not merit it.”

“It is indeed a favor, young man,” replied M. de Tréville, “but it may

not be so far beyond your hopes as you believe, or rather as you appear

to believe. But his majesty’s decision is always necessary; and I

inform you with regret that no one becomes a Musketeer without the

preliminary ordeal of several campaigns, certain brilliant actions, or

a service of two years in some other regiment less favored than ours.”

D’Artagnan bowed without replying, feeling his desire to don the

Musketeer’s uniform vastly increased by the great difficulties which

preceded the attainment of it.

“But,” continued M. de Tréville, fixing upon his compatriot a look so

piercing that it might be said he wished to read the thoughts of his

heart, “on account of my old companion, your father, as I have said, I

will do something for you, young man. Our recruits from Béarn are not

generally very rich, and I have no reason to think matters have much

changed in this respect since I left the province. I dare say you have

not brought too large a stock of money with you?”

D’Artagnan drew himself up with a proud air which plainly said, “I ask

alms of no man.”

“Oh, that’s very well, young man,” continued M. de Tréville, “that’s

all very well. I know these airs; I myself came to Paris with four

crowns in my purse, and would have fought with anyone who dared to tell

me I was not in a condition to purchase the Louvre.”

D’Artagnan’s bearing became still more imposing. Thanks to the sale of

his horse, he commenced his career with four more crowns than M. de

Tréville possessed at the commencement of his.

“You ought, I say, then, to husband the means you have, however large

the sum may be; but you ought also to endeavor to perfect yourself in

the exercises becoming a gentleman. I will write a letter today to the

Director of the Royal Academy, and tomorrow he will admit you without

any expense to yourself. Do not refuse this little service. Our

best-born and richest gentlemen sometimes solicit it without being able

to obtain it. You will learn horsemanship, swordsmanship in all its

branches, and dancing. You will make some desirable acquaintances; and

from time to time you can call upon me, just to tell me how you are

getting on, and to say whether I can be of further service to you.”

D’Artagnan, stranger as he was to all the manners of a court, could not

but perceive a little coldness in this reception.

“Alas, sir,” said he, “I cannot but perceive how sadly I miss the

letter of introduction which my father gave me to present to you.”

“I certainly am surprised,” replied M. de Tréville, “that you should

undertake so long a journey without that necessary passport, the sole

resource of us poor Béarnese.”

“I had one, sir, and, thank God, such as I could wish,” cried

D’Artagnan; “but it was perfidiously stolen from me.”

He then related the adventure of Meung, described the unknown gentleman

with the greatest minuteness, and all with a warmth and truthfulness

that delighted M. de Tréville.

“This is all very strange,” said M. de Tréville, after meditating a

minute; “you mentioned my name, then, aloud?”

“Yes, sir, I certainly committed that imprudence; but why should I have

done otherwise? A name like yours must be as a buckler to me on my way.

Judge if I should not put myself under its protection.”

Flattery was at that period very current, and M. de Tréville loved

incense as well as a king, or even a cardinal. He could not refrain

from a smile of visible satisfaction; but this smile soon disappeared,

and returning to the adventure of Meung, “Tell me,” continued he, “had

not this gentlemen a slight scar on his cheek?”

“Yes, such a one as would be made by the grazing of a ball.”

“Was he not a fine-looking man?”

“Yes.”

“Of lofty stature.”

“Yes.”

“Of pale complexion and brown hair?”

“Yes, yes, that is he; how is it, sir, that you are acquainted with

this man? If I ever find him again—and I will find him, I swear, were

it in hell!”

“He was waiting for a woman,” continued Tréville.

“He departed immediately after having conversed for a minute with her

whom he awaited.”

“You know not the subject of their conversation?”

“He gave her a box, told her not to open it except in London.”

“Was this woman English?”

“He called her Milady.”

“It is he; it must be he!” murmured Tréville. “I believed him still at

Brussels.”

“Oh, sir, if you know who this man is,” cried D’Artagnan, “tell me who

he is, and whence he is. I will then release you from all your

promises—even that of procuring my admission into the Musketeers; for

before everything, I wish to avenge myself.”

“Beware, young man!” cried Tréville. “If you see him coming on one side

of the street, pass by on the other. Do not cast yourself against such

a rock; he would break you like glass.”

“That will not prevent me,” replied D’Artagnan, “if ever I find him.”

“In the meantime,” said Tréville, “seek him not—if I have a right to

advise you.”

All at once the captain stopped, as if struck by a sudden suspicion.

This great hatred which the young traveler manifested so loudly for

this man, who—a rather improbable thing—had stolen his father’s letter

from him—was there not some perfidy concealed under this hatred? Might

not this young man be sent by his Eminence? Might he not have come for

the purpose of laying a snare for him? This pretended D’Artagnan—was he

not an emissary of the cardinal, whom the cardinal sought to introduce

into Tréville’s house, to place near him, to win his confidence, and

afterward to ruin him as had been done in a thousand other instances?

He fixed his eyes upon D’Artagnan even more earnestly than before. He

was moderately reassured, however, by the aspect of that countenance,

full of astute intelligence and affected humility. “I know he is a

Gascon,” reflected he, “but he may be one for the cardinal as well as

for me. Let us try him.”

“My friend,” said he, slowly, “I wish, as the son of an ancient

friend—for I consider this story of the lost letter perfectly true—I

wish, I say, in order to repair the coldness you may have remarked in

my reception of you, to discover to you the secrets of our policy. The

king and the cardinal are the best of friends; their apparent

bickerings are only feints to deceive fools. I am not willing that a

compatriot, a handsome cavalier, a brave youth, quite fit to make his

way, should become the dupe of all these artifices and fall into the

snare after the example of so many others who have been ruined by it.

Be assured that I am devoted to both these all-powerful masters, and

that my earnest endeavors have no other aim than the service of the

king, and also the cardinal—one of the most illustrious geniuses that

France has ever produced.

“Now, young man, regulate your conduct accordingly; and if you

entertain, whether from your family, your relations, or even from your

instincts, any of these enmities which we see constantly breaking out

against the cardinal, bid me adieu and let us separate. I will aid you

in many ways, but without attaching you to my person. I hope that my

frankness at least will make you my friend; for you are the only young

man to whom I have hitherto spoken as I have done to you.”

Tréville said to himself: “If the cardinal has set this young fox upon

me, he will certainly not have failed—he, who knows how bitterly I

execrate him—to tell his spy that the best means of making his court to

me is to rail at him. Therefore, in spite of all my protestations, if

it be as I suspect, my cunning gossip will assure me that he holds his

Eminence in horror.”

It, however, proved otherwise. D’Artagnan answered, with the greatest

simplicity: “I came to Paris with exactly such intentions. My father

advised me to stoop to nobody but the king, the cardinal, and

yourself—whom he considered the first three personages in France.”

D’Artagnan added M. de Tréville to the others, as may be perceived; but

he thought this addition would do no harm.

“I have the greatest veneration for the cardinal,” continued he, “and

the most profound respect for his actions. So much the better for me,

sir, if you speak to me, as you say, with frankness—for then you will

do me the honor to esteem the resemblance of our opinions; but if you

have entertained any doubt, as naturally you may, I feel that I am

ruining myself by speaking the truth. But I still trust you will not

esteem me the less for it, and that is my object beyond all others.”

M. de Tréville was surprised to the greatest degree. So much

penetration, so much frankness, created admiration, but did not

entirely remove his suspicions. The more this young man was superior to

others, the more he was to be dreaded if he meant to deceive him.

Nevertheless, he pressed D’Artagnan’s hand, and said to him: “You are

an honest youth; but at the present moment I can only do for you that

which I just now offered. My hôtel will be always open to you.

Hereafter, being able to ask for me at all hours, and consequently to

take advantage of all opportunities, you will probably obtain that

which you desire.”

“That is to say,” replied D’Artagnan, “that you will wait until I have

proved myself worthy of it. Well, be assured,” added he, with the

familiarity of a Gascon, “you shall not wait long.” And he bowed in

order to retire, and as if he considered the future in his own hands.

“But wait a minute,” said M. de Tréville, stopping him. “I promised you

a letter for the director of the Academy. Are you too proud to accept

it, young gentleman?”

“No, sir,” said D’Artagnan; “and I will guard it so carefully that I

will be sworn it shall arrive at its address, and woe be to him who

shall attempt to take it from me!”

M. de Tréville smiled at this flourish; and leaving his young man

compatriot in the embrasure of the window, where they had talked

together, he seated himself at a table in order to write the promised

letter of recommendation. While he was doing this, D’Artagnan, having

no better employment, amused himself with beating a march upon the

window and with looking at the Musketeers, who went away, one after

another, following them with his eyes until they disappeared.

M. de Tréville, after having written the letter, sealed it, and rising,

approached the young man in order to give it to him. But at the very

moment when D’Artagnan stretched out his hand to receive it, M. de

Tréville was highly astonished to see his _protégé_ make a sudden

spring, become crimson with passion, and rush from the cabinet crying,

“S’blood, he shall not escape me this time!”

“And who?” asked M. de Tréville.

“He, my thief!” replied D’Artagnan. “Ah, the traitor!” and he

disappeared.

“The devil take the madman!” murmured M. de Tréville, “unless,” added

he, “this is a cunning mode of escaping, seeing that he had failed in

his purpose!”