The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas - [Full Version] - (ANNOTATED)

  ALEXANDRE DUMAS

  The Three Musketeers

  Book One of the Musketeers Cycle

  EDITED AND TRANSLATED

  BY LAWRENCE ELLSWORTH

  Interior Illustrations by Maurice Leloir

  CONTENTS

  Introduction

  Author’s Preface

  I The Three Presents of Monsieur d’Artagnan the Elder

  II The Antechamber of Monsieur de Tréville

  III The Audience

  IV The Shoulder of Athos, the Baldric of Porthos, and the Handkerchief of Aramis

  V The King’s Musketeers and the Cardinal’s Guards

  VI His Majesty King Louis XIII

  VII The Domestic Life of the Musketeers

  VIII A Court Intrigue

  IX D’Artagnan Begins to Show Himself

  X A Seventeenth-Century Mousetrap

  XI The Plot Thickens

  XII George Villiers, the Duke of Buckingham

  XIII Monsieur Bonacieux

  XIV The Man of Meung

  XV Men of the Robe and Men of the Sword

  XVI In Which Séguier, the Keeper of the Seals, Looks More Than Once for the Bell He Used to Ring

  XVII In the Bonacieux Household

  XVIII The Lover and the Husband

  XIX Plan of Campaign

  XX The Journey

  XXI The Comtesse de Winter

  XXII The Ballet of La Merlaison

  XXIII The Rendezvous

  XXIV The Pavilion

  XXV The Mistress of Porthos

  XXVI The Thesis of Aramis

  XXVII The Wife of Athos

  XXVIII The Return

  XXIX The Hunt for Equipment

  XXX Milady

  XXXI English and French

  XXXII Dinner at the Prosecutor’s

  XXXIII Mistress and Maid

  XXXIV Concerning the Equipment of Aramis and Porthos

  XXXV At Night All Cats Are Gray

  XXXVI Dreams of Vengeance

  XXXVII Milady’s Secret

  XXXVIII How Athos, Without Inconveniencing Himself, Acquired His Equipment

  XXXIX An Apparition

  XL The Cardinal

  XLI The Siege of La Rochelle

  XLII The Anjou Wine

  XLIII The Inn at Colombier-Rouge

  XLIV On the Utility of Stovepipes

  XLV A Conjugal Scene

  XLVI The Bastion of Saint-Gervais

  XLVII The Council of the Musketeers

  XLVIII A Family Affair

  XLIX The Hand of Fate

  L A Conversation Between Brother and Sister

  LI “Officer!”

  LII The First Day of Captivity

  LIII The Second Day of Captivity

  LIV The Third Day of Captivity

  LV The Fourth Day of Captivity

  LVI The Fifth Day of Captivity

  LVII A Scene from Classical Tragedy

  LVIII Escape

  LIX What Happened at Portsmouth on 23 August 1628

  LX In France

  LXI The Carmelite Convent at Béthune

  LXII Two Varieties of Demon

  LXIII A Drop of Water

  LXIV The Man in the Red Cloak

  LXV Judgment

  LXVI Execution

  LXVII Conclusion

  Epilogue

  Dramatis Personae: Historical Characters

  Notes on the Text of The Three Musketeers

  Acknowledgments

  Introduction

  The Three Musketeers is one of the best-loved novels of the nineteenth century, still read and admired over a century and a half since its first publication. It’s been a pleasure and a privilege to prepare a new, present-day English translation of this novel, not least because it’s a work that has always meant a lot to me personally. Writing an introduction to Dumas’s great classic is more than a little intimidating for this editor, but it’s worthwhile to consider where this book comes from, and why it’s still relevant and still resonates with readers in the twenty-first century.

  The author, Alexandre Dumas, was a man who embodied contradictions: his immediate ancestors included both black Haitian slaves and white French aristocrats, he was a republican man of the people who wrote tales of kings, queens, and knights, and a devout admirer of literary lights like Shakespeare and Molière who innovated a collaborative, almost assembly-line method of writing that churned out industrial quantities of prose. Nearly everyone who met him remarked on his larger-than-life personality and unquenchable joie de vivre, his endless appetite for good food and wine, political debate, dramatic stories, and romantic women. Dumas contained multitudes, and in a way each of his four famous musketeers represented a part of himself—and one other.

  Alexandre Dumas was born in the French town Villers-Cotterêts, about fifty miles north of Paris, on July 24, 1802, to retired General Thomas-Alexandre Dumas and his wife, Marie-Louise Élisabeth Labouret, the daughter of a local innkeeper. General Dumas was a remarkable man,1 the son of a French noble and a Caribbean slave who rose through the ranks of the Revolutionary Army to become one of Napoleon’s right-hand commanders, before the emperor became jealous and betrayed him to disgrace and imprisonment. The general was a giant of a man, tall and powerful, a fierce soldier of otherwise gentle disposition, an officer who led his troops from the front, and who opposed injustice whenever it crossed his path. As a man of mixed race, he benefited from the brief egalitarianism of Revolutionary France, and then suffered from the backlash when Napoleon revived the racist regulations of the ancien régime. His health broken by imprisonment in Naples in 1799–1801, he had returned to France and was living on his officer’s pension at the time his son was born. He doted on young Alexandre, and it’s not overstating it to say that his son worshipped him; though the general died before Alexandre turned four, the son retained vivid memories of the father, dedicated himself to learning everything he could of General Dumas’s life, and took him, wherever possible, as his role model.

  The general’s pension died with him, and after that, money was hard to come by for the Dumas family. In his small town, schooling opportunities for the suddenly poor young Alexandre were limited, and though his native intelligence was considerable, his education was haphazard and intermittent. By the time he was a teenager, handsome and tall, he had two main interests, girls and hunting, and one strong asset: his handwriting, which was swift and beautiful. It got him a job as an apprentice clerk in a law office, which earned him enough to cover his family’s food and rent, and even to go with a friend to the neighboring town of Soissons to see a traveling theatrical production.

  It was Hamlet—and from that moment young Alexandre was stagestruck, and his life had one all-consuming goal: to write for the theater. At age twenty, like all provincial would-be literati, Dumas made his way to Paris, where his handwriting and a family connection who remembered General Dumas won him a job on the secretarial staff of Louis Philippe, the Duc d’Orléans. Working in the Palais Royal and frequenting the salons of the city’s playwrights, he soon learned how little he really knew, and set out on a rigorous program of self-education that taught him the history of French literature and European drama. It also taught him, for the first time in his life, the satisfaction and benefits of dedicated hard work, a lesson he profited by for the rest of his career.

  With a focus at last for his endless reservoirs of creative energy, Dumas began writing plays in the manner of whatever was currently popular—and even better, he began to sell them, one here, one there, supplemented by some verse, mainly odes and elegies
. After five years in this hard school he finally sold a play that was a hit: Henri III et ses Mignons (1828), a lurid historical melodrama. It was his first taste of success, and he liked the flavor.

  He spent the next ten years as a playwright figuring out what went over best with a popular audience, breaking with stuffy classical tradition and writing dramas bursting with vivid scenes conveyed by sharp exchanges of crackling dialogue. The experience served him well as he began to turn more and more to prose, short novels at first, and then full-length works, mainly historical adventures published in serial form. This was in part a business decision, as the late 1830s was the beginning of the great boom period for weekly papers, feuilletons as they were known in France, sales of which were largely driven by the popularity of serialized novels. This was a form that suited the workaholic Dumas perfectly, and he became the king of serialized novels in France, as Dickens was in England.

  After several histories and moderately successful novels, by 1844 Dumas was ready to start work on two novels that embodied themes close to his heart, ideas he was passionate about because they represented, each in its own way, aspects of his beloved father’s life. The first of these two novels was The Three Musketeers, and the second was The Count of Monte Cristo.

  To consider the second one first, The Count of Monte Cristo is the story of a good man unjustly imprisoned by a Napoleonic-era conspiracy, a man who escapes his fate and exceeds the limitations of his birth and incarceration to become an accomplished financier, a superb swordsman, a talented impresario, and a suave and celebrated member of high society—and who then employs these accomplishments as weapons to wreak vengeance on those who betrayed him. It’s Dumas’s homage to the successes of his by-his-bootstraps father, and payback for his downfall, an extended revenge fantasy that condemns the casual corruption of the European establishment while simultaneously craving its approval. It’s a powerful novel, still popular today, and with good reason—but once its story is told Monte Cristo’s tale is over, and Dumas never wrote a sequel to it.

  But if The Count of Monte Cristo is Dumas’s dark revenge for France’s mistreatment of his father, The Three Musketeers is his tribute to the light of General Dumas’s heroism and courage, as incarnated in the persons of its protagonists, d’Artagnan, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis. The question of how men of courage could live their lives guided by personal codes of honor despite the conflicting dictates of society was a theme that had been percolating in Dumas’s work for some time. To really explore it, he just needed to find a framework grand enough to support full expression of the idea, a broad tapestry with scope enough for nuance and variety.

  Dumas loved history so long as it was dramatized, its movements and events conveyed as the deeds of strong personalities rather than the abstract tides of economics or the dialectics of ideas. He found a model for this approach, crude but powerful, in the writings of one Gatien de Courtilz de Sandras (1644–1712), a Frenchman of flexible scruples who concocted a series of popular but highly fictionalized pseudo-biographies in the decades just before and after 1700. Sandras’s method was to pick a recognizable and recently deceased public figure who had taken part in interesting events, and create a narrative that recounted the known facts of his life, inventing others wherever necessary to fill in the gaps. The resulting colorful story was then presented in the first person as the subject’s actual memoirs. His first success with this approach was the Mémoires de M.L.C.D.R. (c. 1688), the pseudo-biography of the adventures of a political agent of Cardinals Richelieu and Mazarin. M.L.C.D.R. stood for Monsieur le Comte de Rochefort, and it was from that book that Dumas drew the name and some of the characteristics of the Rochefort who appears in The Three Musketeers.

  But Sandras had his greatest success in 1700 with his Mémoires de Monsieur d’Artagnan, a counterfeit account of the life of Louis XIV’s Captain-Lieutenant of the King’s Musketeers. Here Dumas found the characters and framework he was looking for: the fearless young Gascon who arrives penniless in Paris determined to make a name for himself; the three young swordsmen already in the musketeers, loyal friends who conceal their noble names under the noms de guerre of Athos, Porthos, and Aramis; the rivalry, sometimes deadly, between the King’s Musketeers and the Cardinal’s Guards, which included such men as Jussac, Biscarat, and Cahusac; the villain, here called Rosnay, who robs d’Artagnan of his letter of recommendation to Monsieur de Tréville, and was to be the other source for Dumas’s Comte de Rochefort; and the beautiful, scheming Englishwoman known only by the name Milédi. Here is the incident of the half-gilded baldric, the duel at the Carmelite convent, the brawl outside the tennis courts, the first interview with King Louis XIII, and more.

  It’s been speculated that it was Dumas’s research assistant and near-collaborator Auguste Maquet who brought the Memoirs of d’Artagnan to Dumas’s attention, but there’s also some evidence that the author borrowed the book from a Marseilles library and never returned it—fortunately for us! Like Sandras, who used only the facts of his subject’s life that fit into his story and embroidered the rest, Dumas cherry-picked characters and incidents from the pseudo-Memoirs to construct his own tale. And in doing so, he made the interesting decision to relocate those characters and incidents from circa 1640, the date of the first chapters of the Memoirs, to the late 1620s. Why move the story to a time when Tréville was not yet Captain of the King’s Musketeers, the Cardinal’s Guard had barely been established, and the historical d’Artagnan was still a youth in Gascony? The answer is Dumas’s interest in certain great historical events, and the personalities behind them.

  The period of 1626–28 had the necessary tension between Louis XIII and his minister Cardinal Richelieu depicted in the Memoirs, but it had something more that Dumas, the great romantic, simply could not resist: a war between France and England seemingly driven solely by an illicit affair of the heart. The strange love triangle between English Prime Minister the Duke of Buckingham, Anne the Queen of France, and King Louis—or Cardinal Richelieu as his proxy—was catnip to Dumas, a perfect embodiment of his theory that all history is personality. And this conflict between monarchs and ministers gave him the ideal context for the romantic intrigues, moral quandaries, and exciting high-stakes exploits of his four young swordsmen.

  Once the author had the outline of his story—d’Artagnan’s arrival in Paris, the royal love triangle, the affair of the diamond studs, the siege of La Rochelle, and the fate of Buckingham—Dumas and his ace assistant Maquet went to work on filling in the details. Ironically, Dumas, though perfectly comfortable with adjusting dates and bending historical events for storytelling purposes, was otherwise dedicated to making sure his setting and characters were as accurate as possible. For compelling and colorful period details he drew mainly from a wealth of actual personal memoirs of seventeenth-century courtiers, the reprinting of which was in vogue in the early nineteenth century. He pored over the journals of the great and the famous, the memoirs of Richelieu, of Bassompierre and La Rochefoucauld, and of lesser-known but equally garrulous court figures such as Madame de Motteville and Pierre de La Porte, avidly mining a motherlode of gossipy anecdotes from the Historiettes of Tallemant des Réaux. The first few chapters of The Three Musketeers began appearing in the Parisian paper Le Siècle in March of 1844, and it was an immediate sensation.

  The century from 1830 to 1930 was the golden age of historical adventure fiction, when mass publication of inexpensive books and periodicals brought such stories to millions of readers, and in Europe and America historical tales were arguably the leading form of entertainment. Novels with heroes toting swords, bows, and muskets appeared by the thousands, most to be read once, quickly, and then tossed aside. Out of all these many, many tales, why has The Three Musketeers endured? Certainly its incidents are exciting and well told, but the plot connecting them rambles at times, especially in the middle chapters, betraying the tale’s origins as a weekly serial. In the end, what sticks with us are the characters of the four musketeers (d’
Artagnan included in that number from chapter forty-eight on), their distinct personalities, and the amusing and endearing ways they react to the dilemmas posed by their adventurous lives. Best of all is how they use their varying strengths and skills to support one another through every trouble and trial.

  At every challenge, one of the musketeers steps forward to lead the response, and the others line up behind him to face it as a unit. “All for one, and one for all”—the famous motto appears only once in the novel, but it’s put into practice again and again. Each of the musketeers is an archetype, embodying a set of virtues useful to the team as a whole. This has fictional precedent in the Knights of the Round Table and, particularly, Robin Hood and his Merrie Men, but never before had these knightly virtues been crystallized and encapsulated so winningly as in the four musketeers. These four remarkable personalities weren’t the invention of Courtilz de Sandras, whose characters are little more than names; they were born from the inspired genius of Alexandre Dumas. And the source of his inspiration was that each of the four embodies an aspect, at least as he saw it, of his father, General Thomas-Alexandre Dumas.

  There is Athos, the exemplar of the virtues of the old nobility, who lives by the laws of chivalry of an earlier era, and though bound and blighted by the strictures of his medieval code of honor, is compelled by that code to an unfailing generosity that uplifts everyone it touches. Though entitled to answer to the ancient name of the Comte de La Fère, he feels forced by circumstances to hide it under the simple name of Athos—as General Thomas-Alexandre did when, estranged from the noble side of his family, he took his mother’s name of Dumas and set aside the name of Davy de La Pailletrie, to which he was entitled as his patrimony.

  There is Porthos, who like the general is a giant in both size and strength, a man of boundless energy whose vanity is offset by his inexhaustible good humor. Porthos, younger son of the bankrupt petty gentry, who has no prospects and nothing but what his strength and ambition can win for him.

  There is Aramis the sly and calculating, the least like General Dumas and thus the least likeable, though he shares the general’s appetite for romance and the company of women. Aramis is the most bloodthirsty of the four—when the musketeers get involved in a fight, it’s always his opponent who ends up dead—and of the four friends he’s also the aspiring writer, though that’s an aspect of the younger Dumas rather than the elder. Aramis is the most complex of the four, and therefore, by the tenets of the Romantic movement, the most compromised.