Chương Chương 48 · Chapter XLVIII.

. Chapter XLVIII.

A FAMILY AFFAIR

Athos had invented the phrase, family affair. A family affair was not

subject to the investigation of the cardinal; a family affair concerned

nobody. People might employ themselves in a family affair before all

the world. Therefore Athos had invented the phrase, _family affair_.

Aramis had discovered the idea, _the lackeys_.

Porthos had discovered the means, _the diamond_.

D’Artagnan alone had discovered nothing—he, ordinarily the most

inventive of the four; but it must be also said that the very name of

Milady paralyzed him.

Ah! no, we were mistaken; he had discovered a purchaser for his

diamond.

The breakfast at M. de Tréville’s was as gay and cheerful as possible.

D’Artagnan already wore his uniform—for being nearly of the same size

as Aramis, and as Aramis was so liberally paid by the publisher who

purchased his poem as to allow him to buy everything double, he sold

his friend a complete outfit.

D’Artagnan would have been at the height of his wishes if he had not

constantly seen Milady like a dark cloud hovering in the horizon.

After breakfast, it was agreed that they should meet again in the

evening at Athos’s lodging, and there finish their plans.

D’Artagnan passed the day in exhibiting his Musketeer’s uniform in

every street of the camp.

In the evening, at the appointed hour, the four friends met. There only

remained three things to decide—what they should write to Milady’s

brother; what they should write to the clever person at Tours; and

which should be the lackeys to carry the letters.

Everyone offered his own. Athos talked of the discretion of Grimaud,

who never spoke a word but when his master unlocked his mouth. Porthos

boasted of the strength of Mousqueton, who was big enough to thrash

four men of ordinary size. Aramis, confiding in the address of Bazin,

made a pompous eulogium on his candidate. Finally, D’Artagnan had

entire faith in the bravery of Planchet, and reminded them of the

manner in which he had conducted himself in the ticklish affair of

Boulogne.

These four virtues disputed the prize for a length of time, and gave

birth to magnificent speeches which we do not repeat here for fear they

should be deemed too long.

“Unfortunately,” said Athos, “he whom we send must possess in himself

alone the four qualities united.”

“But where is such a lackey to be found?”

“Not to be found!” cried Athos. “I know it well, so take Grimaud.”

“Take Mousqueton.”

“Take Bazin.”

“Take Planchet. Planchet is brave and shrewd; they are two qualities

out of the four.”

“Gentlemen,” said Aramis, “the principal question is not to know which

of our four lackeys is the most discreet, the most strong, the most

clever, or the most brave; the principal thing is to know which loves

money the best.”

“What Aramis says is very sensible,” replied Athos; “we must speculate

upon the faults of people, and not upon their virtues. Monsieur Abbé,

you are a great moralist.”

“Doubtless,” said Aramis, “for we not only require to be well served in

order to succeed, but moreover, not to fail; for in case of failure,

heads are in question, not for our lackeys—”

“Speak lower, Aramis,” said Athos.

“That’s wise—not for the lackeys,” resumed Aramis, “but for the

master—for the _masters_, we may say. Are our lackeys sufficiently

devoted to us to risk their lives for us? No.”

“My faith,” said D’Artagnan. “I would almost answer for Planchet.”

“Well, my dear friend, add to his natural devotedness a good sum of

money, and then, instead of answering for him once, answer for him

twice.”

“Why, good God! you will be deceived just the same,” said Athos, who

was an optimist when things were concerned, and a pessimist when men

were in question. “They will promise everything for the sake of the

money, and on the road fear will prevent them from acting. Once taken,

they will be pressed; when pressed, they will confess everything. What

the devil! we are not children. To reach England”—Athos lowered his

voice—“all France, covered with spies and creatures of the cardinal,

must be crossed. A passport for embarkation must be obtained; and the

party must be acquainted with English in order to ask the way to

London. Really, I think the thing very difficult.”

“Not at all,” cried D’Artagnan, who was anxious the matter should be

accomplished; “on the contrary, I think it very easy. It would be, no

doubt, _parbleu_, if we write to Lord de Winter about affairs of vast

importance, of the horrors of the cardinal—”

“Speak lower!” said Athos.

“—of intrigues and secrets of state,” continued D’Artagnan, complying

with the recommendation. “There can be no doubt we would all be broken

on the wheel; but for God’s sake, do not forget, as you yourself said,

Athos, that we only write to him concerning a family affair; that we

only write to him to entreat that as soon as Milady arrives in London

he will put it out of her power to injure us. I will write to him,

then, nearly in these terms.”

“Let us see,” said Athos, assuming in advance a critical look.

“_Monsieur and dear friend_—”

“Ah, yes! _Dear friend_ to an Englishman,” interrupted Athos; “well

commenced! Bravo, D’Artagnan! Only with that word you would be

quartered instead of being broken on the wheel.”

“Well, perhaps. I will say, then, _Monsieur_, quite short.”

“You may even say, _My Lord_,” replied Athos, who stickled for

propriety.

“_My Lord, do you remember the little goat pasture of the Luxembourg?_”

“Good, _the Luxembourg!_ One might believe this is an allusion to the

queen-mother! That’s ingenious,” said Athos.

“Well, then, we will put simply, _My Lord, do you remember a certain

little enclosure where your life was spared?_”

“My dear D’Artagnan, you will never make anything but a very bad

secretary. _Where your life was spared!_ For shame! that’s unworthy. A

man of spirit is not to be reminded of such services. A benefit

reproached is an offense committed.”

“The devil!” said D’Artagnan, “you are insupportable. If the letter

must be written under your censure, my faith, I renounce the task.”

“And you will do right. Handle the musket and the sword, my dear

fellow. You will come off splendidly at those two exercises; but pass

the pen over to Monsieur Abbé. That’s his province.”

“Ay, ay!” said Porthos; “pass the pen to Aramis, who writes theses in

Latin.”

“Well, so be it,” said D’Artagnan. “Draw up this note for us, Aramis;

but by our Holy Father the Pope, cut it short, for I shall prune you in

my turn, I warn you.”

“I ask no better,” said Aramis, with that ingenious air of confidence

which every poet has in himself; “but let me be properly acquainted

with the subject. I have heard here and there that this sister-in-law

was a hussy. I have obtained proof of it by listening to her

conversation with the cardinal.”

“Lower! _sacré bleu!_” said Athos.

“But,” continued Aramis, “the details escape me.”

“And me also,” said Porthos.

D’Artagnan and Athos looked at each other for some time in silence. At

length Athos, after serious reflection and becoming more pale than

usual, made a sign of assent to D’Artagnan, who by it understood he was

at liberty to speak.

“Well, this is what you have to say,” said D’Artagnan: “_My Lord, your

sister-in-law is an infamous woman, who wished to have you killed that

she might inherit your wealth; but she could not marry your brother,

being already married in France, and having been_—” D’Artagnan stopped,

as if seeking for the word, and looked at Athos.

“Repudiated by her husband,” said Athos.

“Because she had been branded,” continued D’Artagnan.

“Bah!” cried Porthos. “Impossible! What do you say—that she wanted to

have her brother-in-law killed?”

“Yes.”

“She was married?” asked Aramis.

“Yes.”

“And her husband found out that she had a _fleur-de-lis_ on her

shoulder?” cried Porthos.

“Yes.”

These three _yeses_ had been pronounced by Athos, each with a sadder

intonation.

“And who has seen this _fleur-de-lis?_” inquired Aramis.

“D’Artagnan and I. Or rather, to observe the chronological order, I and

D’Artagnan,” replied Athos.

“And does the husband of this frightful creature still live?” said

Aramis.

“He still lives.”

“Are you quite sure of it?”

“I am he.”

There was a moment of cold silence, during which everyone was affected

according to his nature.

“This time,” said Athos, first breaking the silence, “D’Artagnan has

given us an excellent program, and the letter must be written at once.”

“The devil! You are right, Athos,” said Aramis; “and it is a rather

difficult matter. The chancellor himself would be puzzled how to write

such a letter, and yet the chancellor draws up an official report very

readily. Never mind! Be silent, I will write.”

Aramis accordingly took the quill, reflected for a few moments, wrote

eight or ten lines in a charming little female hand, and then with a

voice soft and slow, as if each word had been scrupulously weighed, he

read the following:

“My Lord, The person who writes these few lines had the honor of

crossing swords with you in the little enclosure of the Rue d’Enfer. As

you have several times since declared yourself the friend of that

person, he thinks it his duty to respond to that friendship by sending

you important information. Twice you have nearly been the victim of a

near relative, whom you believe to be your heir because you are

ignorant that before she contracted a marriage in England she was

already married in France. But the third time, which is the present,

you may succumb. Your relative left La Rochelle for England during the

night. Watch her arrival, for she has great and terrible projects. If

you require to know positively what she is capable of, read her past

history on her left shoulder.”

“Well, now that will do wonderfully well,” said Athos. “My dear Aramis,

you have the pen of a secretary of state. Lord de Winter will now be

upon his guard if the letter should reach him; and even if it should

fall into the hands of the cardinal, we shall not be compromised. But

as the lackey who goes may make us believe he has been to London and

may stop at Châtellerault, let us give him only half the sum promised

him, with the letter, with an agreement that he shall have the other

half in exchange for the reply. Have you the diamond?” continued Athos.

“I have what is still better. I have the price;” and D’Artagnan threw

the bag upon the table. At the sound of the gold Aramis raised his eyes

and Porthos started. As to Athos, he remained unmoved.

“How much in that little bag?”

“Seven thousand livres, in louis of twelve francs.”

“Seven thousand livres!” cried Porthos. “That poor little diamond was

worth seven thousand livres?”

“It appears so,” said Athos, “since here they are. I don’t suppose that

our friend D’Artagnan has added any of his own to the amount.”

“But, gentlemen, in all this,” said D’Artagnan, “we do not think of the

queen. Let us take some heed of the welfare of her dear Buckingham.

That is the least we owe her.”

“That’s true,” said Athos; “but that concerns Aramis.”

“Well,” replied the latter, blushing, “what must I say?”

“Oh, that’s simple enough!” replied Athos. “Write a second letter for

that clever personage who lives at Tours.”

Aramis resumed his pen, reflected a little, and wrote the following

lines, which he immediately submitted to the approbation of his

friends.

“_My dear cousin_.”

“Ah, ah!” said Athos. “This clever person is your relative, then?”

“Cousin-german.”

“Go on, to your cousin, then!”

Aramis continued:

“MY DEAR COUSIN, His Eminence, the cardinal, whom God preserve for the

happiness of France and the confusion of the enemies of the kingdom, is

on the point of putting an end to the hectic rebellion of La Rochelle.

It is probable that the succor of the English fleet will never even

arrive in sight of the place. I will even venture to say that I am

certain M. de Buckingham will be prevented from setting out by some

great event. His Eminence is the most illustrious politician of times

past, of times present, and probably of times to come. He would

extinguish the sun if the sun incommoded him. Give these happy tidings

to your sister, my dear cousin. I have dreamed that the unlucky

Englishman was dead. I cannot recollect whether it was by steel or by

poison; only of this I am sure, I have dreamed he was dead, and you

know my dreams never deceive me. Be assured, then, of seeing me soon

return.”

“Capital!” cried Athos; “you are the king of poets, my dear Aramis. You

speak like the Apocalypse, and you are as true as the Gospel. There is

nothing now to do but to put the address to this letter.”

“That is easily done,” said Aramis.

He folded the letter fancifully, and took up his pen and wrote:

“_To Mlle. Michon, seamstress, Tours_.”

The three friends looked at one another and laughed; they were caught.

“Now,” said Aramis, “you will please to understand, gentlemen, that

Bazin alone can carry this letter to Tours. My cousin knows nobody but

Bazin, and places confidence in nobody but him; any other person would

fail. Besides, Bazin is ambitious and learned; Bazin has read history,

gentlemen, he knows that Sixtus the Fifth became Pope after having kept

pigs. Well, as he means to enter the Church at the same time as myself,

he does not despair of becoming Pope in his turn, or at least a

cardinal. You can understand that a man who has such views will never

allow himself to be taken, or if taken, will undergo martyrdom rather

than speak.”

“Very well,” said D’Artagnan, “I consent to Bazin with all my heart,

but grant me Planchet. Milady had him one day turned out of doors, with

sundry blows of a good stick to accelerate his motions. Now, Planchet

has an excellent memory; and I will be bound that sooner than

relinquish any possible means of vengeance, he will allow himself to be

beaten to death. If your arrangements at Tours are your arrangements,

Aramis, those of London are mine. I request, then, that Planchet may be

chosen, more particularly as he has already been to London with me, and

knows how to speak correctly: _London, sir, if you please, and my

master, Lord D’Artagnan_. With that you may be satisfied he can make

his way, both going and returning.”

“In that case,” said Athos, “Planchet must receive seven hundred livres

for going, and seven hundred livres for coming back; and Bazin, three

hundred livres for going, and three hundred livres for returning—that

will reduce the sum to five thousand livres. We will each take a

thousand livres to be employed as seems good, and we will leave a fund

of a thousand livres under the guardianship of Monsieur Abbé here, for

extraordinary occasions or common wants. Will that do?”

“My dear Athos,” said Aramis, “you speak like Nestor, who was, as

everyone knows, the wisest among the Greeks.”

“Well, then,” said Athos, “it is agreed. Planchet and Bazin shall go.

Everything considered, I am not sorry to retain Grimaud; he is

accustomed to my ways, and I am particular. Yesterday’s affair must

have shaken him a little; his voyage would upset him quite.”

Planchet was sent for, and instructions were given him. The matter had

been named to him by D’Artagnan, who in the first place pointed out the

money to him, then the glory, and then the danger.

“I will carry the letter in the lining of my coat,” said Planchet; “and

if I am taken I will swallow it.”

“Well, but then you will not be able to fulfill your commission,” said

D’Artagnan.

“You will give me a copy this evening, which I shall know by heart

tomorrow.”

D’Artagnan looked at his friends, as if to say, “Well, what did I tell

you?”

“Now,” continued he, addressing Planchet, “you have eight days to get

an interview with Lord de Winter; you have eight days to return—in all

sixteen days. If, on the sixteenth day after your departure, at eight

o’clock in the evening you are not here, no money—even if it be but

five minutes past eight.”

“Then, monsieur,” said Planchet, “you must buy me a watch.”

“Take this,” said Athos, with his usual careless generosity, giving him

his own, “and be a good lad. Remember, if you talk, if you babble, if

you get drunk, you risk your master’s head, who has so much confidence

in your fidelity, and who answers for you. But remember, also, that if

by your fault any evil happens to D’Artagnan, I will find you, wherever

you may be, for the purpose of ripping up your belly.”

“Oh, monsieur!” said Planchet, humiliated by the suspicion, and

moreover, terrified at the calm air of the Musketeer.

“And I,” said Porthos, rolling his large eyes, “remember, I will skin

you alive.”

“Ah, monsieur!”

“And I,” said Aramis, with his soft, melodius voice, “remember that I

will roast you at a slow fire, like a savage.”

“Ah, monsieur!”

Planchet began to weep. We will not venture to say whether it was from

terror created by the threats or from tenderness at seeing four friends

so closely united.

D’Artagnan took his hand. “See, Planchet,” said he, “these gentlemen

only say this out of affection for me, but at bottom they all like

you.”

“Ah, monsieur,” said Planchet, “I will succeed or I will consent to be

cut in quarters; and if they do cut me in quarters, be assured that not

a morsel of me will speak.”

It was decided that Planchet should set out the next day, at eight

o’clock in the morning, in order, as he had said, that he might during

the night learn the letter by heart. He gained just twelve hours by

this engagement; he was to be back on the sixteenth day, by eight

o’clock in the evening.

In the morning, as he was mounting his horse, D’Artagnan, who felt at

the bottom of his heart a partiality for the duke, took Planchet aside.

“Listen,” said he to him. “When you have given the letter to Lord de

Winter and he has read it, you will further say to him: _Watch over his

Grace Lord Buckingham, for they wish to assassinate him_. But this,

Planchet, is so serious and important that I have not informed my

friends that I would entrust this secret to you; and for a captain’s

commission I would not write it.”

“Be satisfied, monsieur,” said Planchet, “you shall see if confidence

can be placed in me.”

Mounted on an excellent horse, which he was to leave at the end of

twenty leagues in order to take the post, Planchet set off at a gallop,

his spirits a little depressed by the triple promise made him by the

Musketeers, but otherwise as light-hearted as possible.

Bazin set out the next day for Tours, and was allowed eight days for

performing his commission.

The four friends, during the period of these two absences, had, as may

well be supposed, the eye on the watch, the nose to the wind, and the

ear on the hark. Their days were passed in endeavoring to catch all

that was said, in observing the proceeding of the cardinal, and in

looking out for all the couriers who arrived. More than once an

involuntary trembling seized them when called upon for some unexpected

service. They had, besides, to look constantly to their own proper

safety; Milady was a phantom which, when it had once appeared to

people, did not allow them to sleep very quietly.

On the morning of the eighth day, Bazin, fresh as ever, and smiling,

according to custom, entered the cabaret of the Parpaillot as the four

friends were sitting down to breakfast, saying, as had been agreed

upon: “Monsieur Aramis, the answer from your cousin.”

The four friends exchanged a joyful glance; half of the work was done.

It is true, however, that it was the shorter and easier part.

Aramis, blushing in spite of himself, took the letter, which was in a

large, coarse hand and not particular for its orthography.

“Good God!” cried he, laughing, “I quite despair of my poor Michon; she

will never write like Monsieur de Voiture.”

“What does you mean by boor Michon?” said the Swiss, who was chatting

with the four friends when the letter came.

“Oh, _pardieu_, less than nothing,” said Aramis; “a charming little

seamstress, whom I love dearly and from whose hand I requested a few

lines as a sort of keepsake.”

“The duvil!” said the Swiss, “if she is as great a lady as her writing

is large, you are a lucky fellow, gomrade!”

Aramis read the letter, and passed it to Athos.

“See what she writes to me, Athos,” said he.

Athos cast a glance over the epistle, and to disperse all the

suspicions that might have been created, read aloud:

“MY COUSIN, My sister and I are skillful in interpreting dreams, and

even entertain great fear of them; but of yours it may be said, I hope,

every dream is an illusion. Adieu! Take care of yourself, and act so

that we may from time to time hear you spoken of.

“MARIE MICHON”

“And what dream does she mean?” asked the dragoon, who had approached

during the reading.

“Yez; what’s the dream?” said the Swiss.

“Well, _pardieu!_” said Aramis, “it was only this: I had a dream, and I

related it to her.”

“Yez, yez,” said the Swiss; “it’s simple enough to dell a dream, but I

neffer dream.”

“You are very fortunate,” said Athos, rising; “I wish I could say as

much!”

“Neffer,” replied the Swiss, enchanted that a man like Athos could envy

him anything. “Neffer, neffer!”

D’Artagnan, seeing Athos rise, did likewise, took his arm, and went

out.

Porthos and Aramis remained behind to encounter the jokes of the

dragoon and the Swiss.

As to Bazin, he went and lay down on a truss of straw; and as he had

more imagination than the Swiss, he dreamed that Aramis, having become

pope, adorned his head with a cardinal’s hat.

But, as we have said, Bazin had not, by his fortunate return, removed

more than a part of the uneasiness which weighed upon the four friends.

The days of expectation are long, and D’Artagnan, in particular, would

have wagered that the days were forty-four hours. He forgot the

necessary slowness of navigation; he exaggerated to himself the power

of Milady. He credited this woman, who appeared to him the equal of a

demon, with agents as supernatural as herself; at the least noise, he

imagined himself about to be arrested, and that Planchet was being

brought back to be confronted with himself and his friends. Still

further, his confidence in the worthy Picard, at one time so great,

diminished day by day. This anxiety became so great that it even

extended to Aramis and Porthos. Athos alone remained unmoved, as if no

danger hovered over him, and as if he breathed his customary

atmosphere.

On the sixteenth day, in particular, these signs were so strong in

D’Artagnan and his two friends that they could not remain quiet in one

place, and wandered about like ghosts on the road by which Planchet was

expected.

“Really,” said Athos to them, “you are not men but children, to let a

woman terrify you so! And what does it amount to, after all? To be

imprisoned. Well, but we should be taken out of prison; Madame

Bonacieux was released. To be decapitated? Why, every day in the

trenches we go cheerfully to expose ourselves to worse than that—for a

bullet may break a leg, and I am convinced a surgeon would give us more

pain in cutting off a thigh than an executioner in cutting off a head.

Wait quietly, then; in two hours, in four, in six hours at latest,

Planchet will be here. He promised to be here, and I have very great

faith in Planchet, who appears to me to be a very good lad.”

“But if he does not come?” said D’Artagnan.

“Well, if he does not come, it will be because he has been delayed,

that’s all. He may have fallen from his horse, he may have cut a caper

from the deck; he may have traveled so fast against the wind as to have

brought on a violent catarrh. Eh, gentlemen, let us reckon upon

accidents! Life is a chaplet of little miseries which the philosopher

counts with a smile. Be philosophers, as I am, gentlemen; sit down at

the table and let us drink. Nothing makes the future look so bright as

surveying it through a glass of chambertin.”

“That’s all very well,” replied D’Artagnan; “but I am tired of fearing

when I open a fresh bottle that the wine may come from the cellar of

Milady.”

“You are very fastidious,” said Athos; “such a beautiful woman!”

“A woman of mark!” said Porthos, with his loud laugh.

Athos started, passed his hand over his brow to remove the drops of

perspiration that burst forth, and rose in his turn with a nervous

movement he could not repress.

The day, however, passed away; and the evening came on slowly, but

finally it came. The bars were filled with drinkers. Athos, who had

pocketed his share of the diamond, seldom quit the Parpaillot. He had

found in M. de Busigny, who, by the by, had given them a magnificent

dinner, a partner worthy of his company. They were playing together, as

usual, when seven o’clock sounded; the patrol was heard passing to

double the posts. At half past seven the retreat was sounded.

“We are lost,” said D’Artagnan, in the ear of Athos.

“You mean to say we _have lost_,” said Athos, quietly, drawing four

pistoles from his pocket and throwing them upon the table. “Come,

gentlemen,” said he, “they are beating the tattoo. Let us to bed!”

And Athos went out of the Parpaillot, followed by D’Artagnan. Aramis

came behind, giving his arm to Porthos. Aramis mumbled verses to

himself, and Porthos from time to time pulled a hair or two from his

mustache, in sign of despair.

But all at once a shadow appeared in the darkness the outline of which

was familiar to D’Artagnan, and a well-known voice said, “Monsieur, I

have brought your cloak; it is chilly this evening.”

“Planchet!” cried D’Artagnan, beside himself with joy.

“Planchet!” repeated Aramis and Porthos.

“Well, yes, Planchet, to be sure,” said Athos, “what is there so

astonishing in that? He promised to be back by eight o’clock, and eight

is striking. Bravo, Planchet, you are a lad of your word, and if ever

you leave your master, I will promise you a place in my service.”

“Oh, no, never,” said Planchet, “I will never leave Monsieur

d’Artagnan.”

At the same time D’Artagnan felt that Planchet slipped a note into his

hand.

D’Artagnan felt a strong inclination to embrace Planchet as he had

embraced him on his departure; but he feared lest this mark of

affection, bestowed upon his lackey in the open street, might appear

extraordinary to passers-by, and he restrained himself.

“I have the note,” said he to Athos and to his friends.

“That’s well,” said Athos, “let us go home and read it.”

The note burned the hand of D’Artagnan. He wished to hasten their

steps; but Athos took his arm and passed it under his own, and the

young man was forced to regulate his pace by that of his friend.

At length they reached the tent, lit a lamp, and while Planchet stood

at the entrance that the four friends might not be surprised,

D’Artagnan, with a trembling hand, broke the seal and opened the so

anxiously expected letter.

It contained half a line, in a hand perfectly British, and with a

conciseness as perfectly Spartan:

_Thank you; be easy_.

D’Artagnan translated this for the others.

Athos took the letter from the hands of D’Artagnan, approached the

lamp, set fire to the paper, and did not let go till it was reduced to

a cinder.

Then, calling Planchet, he said, “Now, my lad, you may claim your seven

hundred livres, but you did not run much risk with such a note as

that.”

“I am not to blame for having tried every means to compress it,” said

Planchet.

“Well!” cried D’Artagnan, “tell us all about it.”

“_Dame_, that’s a long job, monsieur.”

“You are right, Planchet,” said Athos; “besides, the tattoo has been

sounded, and we should be observed if we kept a light burning much

longer than the others.”

“So be it,” said D’Artagnan. “Go to bed, Planchet, and sleep soundly.”

“My faith, monsieur! that will be the first time I have done so for

sixteen days.”

“And me, too!” said D’Artagnan.

“And me, too!” said Porthos.

“And me, too!” said Aramis.

“Well, if you will have the truth, and me, too!” said Athos.