Three Musketeers (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Read online

  “That is because your fancies go too far,” replied the triumphant Bonacieux, “and I mistrust them.”

  “Well, I will give it up, then,” said the young woman, sighing. “It is well as it is; say no more about it.”

  “At least you should tell me what I should have to do in London,” replied Bonacieux, who remembered a little too late that Rochefort had desired him to endeavor to obtain his wife’s secrets.

  “It is of no use for you to know anything about it,” said the young woman, whom an instinctive mistrust now impelled to draw back. “It was about one of those purchases that interest women—a purchase by which much might have been gained.”

  But the more the young woman excused herself, the more important Bonacieux thought the secret which she declined to confide to him. He resolved then to hasten immediately to the residence of the Comte de Rochefort, and tell him that the queen was seeking for a messenger to send to London.

  “Pardon me for quitting you, my dear Madame Bonacieux,” said he; “but, not knowing you would come to see me, I had made an engagement with a friend. I shall soon return; and if you will wait only a few minutes for me, as soon as I have concluded my business with that friend, as it is growing late, I will come back and reconduct you to the Louvre.”

  “Thank you, monsieur, you are not brave enough to be of any use to me whatever,” replied Mme. Bonacieux. “I shall return very safely to the Louvre all alone.”

  “As you please, Madame Bonacieux,” said the ex-mercer. “Shall I see you again soon?”

  “Next week I hope my duties will afford me a little liberty, and I will take advantage of it to come and put things in order here, as they must necessarily be much deranged.”

  “Very well; I shall expect you. You are not angry with me?”

  “Not the least in the world.”

  “Till then, then?”

  “Till then.”

  Bonacieux kissed his wife’s hand, and set off at a quick pace.

  “Well,” said Mme. Bonacieux, when her husband had shut the street door and she found herself alone; “that imbecile lacked but one thing to become a cardinalist. And I, who have answered for him to the queen—I, who have promised my poor mistress—ah, my God, my God! She will take me for one of those wretches with whom the palace swarms and who are placed about her as spies! Ah, Monsieur Bonacieux, I never did love you much, but now it is worse than ever. I hate you, and on my word you shall pay for this!”

  At the moment she spoke these words a rap on the ceiling made her raise her head, and a voice which reached her through the ceiling cried, “Dear Madame Bonacieux, open for me the little door on the alley, and I will come down to you.”

  18

  LOVER AND HUSBAND

  Ah, madame,” said D’Artagnan, entering by the door which the young woman opened for him, “allow me to tell you that you have a bad sort of a husband. ”

  “You have, then, overheard our conversation?” asked Mme. Bonacieux, eagerly, and looking at D’Artagnan with disquiet.

  “The whole.”

  “But how, my God?”

  “By a mode of proceeding known to myself, and by which I likewise overheard the more animated conversation which you had with the cardinal’s police.”

  “And what did you understand by what we said?”

  “A thousand things. In the first place, that, unfortunately, your husband is a simpleton and a fool; in the next place, you are in trouble, of which I am very glad, as it gives me an opportunity of placing myself at your service, and God knows I am ready to throw myself into the fire for you; finally, that the queen wants a brave, intelligent, devoted man to make a journey to London for her. I have at least two of the three qualities you stand in need of, and here I am.”

  Mme. Bonacieux made no reply; but her heart beat with joy and secret hope shone in her eyes.

  “And what guarantee will you give me,” asked she, “if I consent to confide this message to you?”

  “My love for you. Speak! Command! What is to be done?”

  “My God, my God!” murmured the young woman, “ought I to confide such a secret to you, monsieur? You are almost a boy.”

  “I see that you require someone to answer for me?”

  “I admit that would reassure me greatly.”

  “Do you know Athos?”

  “No.”

  “Porthos?”

  “No.”

  “Aramis?”

  “No. Who are these gentlemen?”

  “Three of the king’s Musketeers. Do you know Monsieur de Tréville, their captain?”

  “Oh, yes, him! I know him; not personally, but from having heard the queen speak of him more than once as a brave and loyal gentleman.”

  “You do not fear lest he should betray you to the cardinal?”

  “Oh, no, certainly not!”

  “Well, reveal your secret to him, and ask him whether, however important, however valuable, however terrible it may be, you may not confide it to me.”

  “But this secret is not mine, and I cannot reveal it in this manner.”

  “You were about to confide it to Monsieur Bonacieux,” said D’Artagnan, with chagrin.

  “As one confides a letter to the hollow of a tree, to the wing of a pigeon, to the collar of a dog.”

  “And yet, me—you see plainly that I love you.”

  “You say so.”

  “I am an honorable man.”

  “You say so.”

  “I am a gallant fellow.”

  “I believe it.”

  “I am brave.”

  “Oh, I am sure of that!”

  “Then, put me to the proof.”

  Mme. Bonacieux looked at the young man, restrained for a minute by a last hesitation; but there was such an ardor in his eyes, such persuasion in his voice, that she felt herself constrained to confide in him. Besides, she found herself in circumstances where everything must be risked for the sake of everything. The queen might be as much injured by too much reticence as by too much confidence; and—let us admit it—the involuntary sentiment which she felt for her young protector decided her to speak.

  “Listen,” said she; “I yield to your protestations, I yield to your assurances. But I swear to you, before God who hears us, that if you betray me, and my enemies pardon me, I will kill myself, while accusing you of my death.”

  “And I—I swear to you before God, madame,” said D’Artagnan, “that if I am taken while accomplishing the orders you give me, I will die sooner than do anything or say anything that may compromise anyone. »

  Then the young woman confided in him the terrible secret of which chance had already communicated to him a part in front of the Samaritaine. This was their mutual declaration of love.

  D’Artagnan was radiant with joy and pride. This secret which he possessed, this woman whom he loved! Confidence and love made him a giant.

  “I go,” said he; “I go at once.”

  “How, you will go!” said Mme. Bonacieux; “and your regiment, your captain?”

  “By my soul, you had made me forget all that, dear Constance ! Yes, you are right; a furlough is needful.”

  “Still another obstacle,” murmured Mme. Bonacieux, sorrowfully.

  “As to that,” cried D’Artagnan, after a moment of reflection, “I shall surmount it, be assured.”

  “How so?”

  “I will go this very evening to Tréville, whom I will request to ask this favor for me of his brother-in-law, Monsieur Dessessart.”

  “But another thing.”

  “What?” asked D’Artagnan, seeing that Mme. Bonacieux hesitated to continue.

  “You have, perhaps, no money?”

  “Perhaps is too much,” said D’Artagnan, smiling.

  “Then,” replied Mme. Bonacieux, opening a cupboard and taking from it the very bag which a half hour before her husband had caressed so affectionately, “take this bag.”

  “The cardinal’s?” cried D’Artagnan, breaking into a loud lau
gh, he having heard, as may be remembered, thanks to the broken boards, every syllable of the conversation between the mercer and his wife.

  “The cardinal’s,” replied Mme. Bonacieux. “You see it makes a very respectable appearance.”

  “Pardieu,” cried D’Artagnan, “it will be a doubly amusing affair, to save the queen with the cardinal’s money!”

  “You are an amiable and charming young man,” said Mme. Bonacieux. “Be assured you will not find her Majesty ungrateful.”

  “Oh, I am already grandly recompensed!” cried D’Artagnan. “I love you; you permit me to tell you that I do—that is already more happiness than I dared to hope.”

  “Silence!” said Mme. Bonacieux, starting.

  “What!”

  “Someone is talking in the street.”

  “It is the voice of—”

  “Of my husband! Yes; I recognize it!”

  D’Artagnan ran to the door and pushed the bolt.

  “He shall not come in before I am gone,” said he; “and when I am gone, you can open to him.”

  “But I ought to be gone, too. And the disappearance of his money; how am I to justify it if I am here?”

  “You are right; we must go out.”

  “Go out? How? He will see us if we go out.”

  “Then you must come up into my room.”

  “Ah,” said Mme. Bonacieux, “you speak that in a tone that frightens me!”

  Mme. Bonacieux pronounced these words with tears in her eyes. D’Artagnan saw those tears, and much disturbed, softened, he threw himself at her feet.

  “With me you will be as safe as in a temple; I give you my word of a gentleman.”

  “Let us go,” said she, “I place full confidence in you, my friend!”

  D‘Artagnan drew back the bolt with precaution, and both, light as shadows, glided through the interior door into the passage, ascended the stairs as quietly as possible, and entered D’Artagnan’s chambers.

  Once there, for greater security, the young man barricaded the door. They both approached the window, and through a slit in the shutter they saw Bonacieux talking with a man in a cloak.

  At sight of this man D’Artagnan started, and half drawing his sword, sprang toward the door.

  It was the man of Meung.

  “What are you going to do?” cried Mme. Bonacieux; “you will ruin us all!”

  “But I have sworn to kill that man!” said D’Artagnan.

  “Your life is devoted from this moment, and does not belong to you. In the name of the queen I forbid you to throw yourself into any peril which is foreign to that of your journey ”

  “And do you command nothing in your own name?”

  “In my name,” said Mme. Bonacieux, with great emotion, “in my name I beg you! But listen; they appear to be speaking of me.”

  D’Artagnan drew near the window, and lent his ear.

  M. Bonacieux had opened his door, and seeing the apartment empty, had returned to the man in the cloak, whom he had left alone for an instant.

  “She is gone,” said he; “she must have returned to the Louvre. ”

  “You are sure,” replied the stranger, “that she did not suspect the intentions with which you went out?”

  “No,” replied Bonacieux, with a self-sufficient air, “she is too superficial a woman.”

  “Is the young Guardsman at home?”

  “I do not think he is; as you see, his shutter is closed, and you can see no light shine through the chinks of the shutters.”

  “All the same, it is well to be certain.”

  “How so?”

  “By knocking at his door. Go.”

  “I will ask his servant.”

  Bonacieux re-entered the house, passed through the same door that had afforded a passage for the two fugitives, went up to D’Artagnan’s door, and knocked.

  No one answered. Porthos, in order to make a greater display, had that evening borrowed Planchet. As to D’Artagnan, he took care not to give the least sign of existence.

  The moment the hand of Bonacieux sounded on the door, the two young people felt their hearts bound within them.

  “There is nobody within,” said Bonacieux.

  “Never mind. Let us return to your apartment. We shall be safer there than in the doorway.”

  “Ah, my God!” whispered Mme. Bonacieux, “we shall hear no more.”

  “On the contrary,” said D’Artagnan, “we shall hear better.”

  D’Artagnan raised the three or four boards which made his chamber another ear of Dionysius, spread a carpet on the floor, went upon his knees, and made a sign to Mme. Bonacieux to stoop as he did toward the opening.

  “You are sure there is nobody there?” said the stranger.

  “I will answer for it,” said Bonacieux.

  “And you think that your wife—”

  “Has returned to the Louvre.”

  “Without speaking to anyone but yourself?”

  “I am sure of it.”

  “That is an important point, do you understand?”

  “Then the news I brought you is of value?”

  “The greatest, my dear Bonacieux; I don’t conceal this from you.”

  “Then the cardinal will be pleased with me?”

  “I have no doubt of it.”

  “The great cardinal!”

  “Are you sure, in her conversation with you, that your wife mentioned no names?”

  “I think not.”

  “She did not name Madame de Chevreuse, the Duke of Buckingham, or Madame de Vernet?”

  “No; she only told me she wished to send me to London to serve the interests of an illustrious personage.”

  “The traitor!” murmured Mme. Bonacieux.

  “Silence!” said D’Artagnan, taking her hand, which, without thinking of it, she abandoned to him.

  “Never mind,” continued the man in the cloak; “you were a fool not to have pretended to accept the mission. You would then be in present possession of the letter. The state, which is now threatened, would be safe, and you—”

  “And I?”

  “Well, you—the cardinal would have given you letters of nobility.”

  “Did he tell you so?”

  “Yes, I know that he meant to afford you that agreeable surprise.”

  “Be satisfied,” replied Bonacieux; “my wife adores me, and there is yet time.”

  “The ninny!” murmured Mme. Bonacieux.

  “Silence!” said D’Artagnan, pressing her hand more closely.

  “How is there still time?” asked the man in the cloak.

  “I go to the Louvre; I ask for Mme. Bonacieux; I say that I have reflected; I renew the affair; I obtain the letter, and I run directly to the cardinal.”

  “Well, go quickly! I will return soon to learn the result of your trip.”

  The stranger went out.

  “Infamous!” said Mme. Bonacieux, addressing this epithet to her husband.

  “Silence!” said D’Artagnan, pressing her hand still more warmly.

  A terrible howling interrupted these reflections of D’Artagnan and Mme. Bonacieux. It was her husband, who had discovered the disappearance of the moneybag, and was crying, “Thieves! ”

  “Oh, my God,” cried Mme. Bonacieux, “he will rouse the whole quarter.”

  Bonacieux called a long time; but as such cries, on account of their frequency, brought nobody in the Rue des Fossoyeurs, and as lately the mercer’s house had a bad name, finding that nobody came, he went out continuing to call, his voice being heard fainter and fainter as he went in the direction of the Rue du Bac.

  “Now he is gone, it is your turn to get out,” said Mme. Bonacieux. “Courage, my friend, but above all, prudence, and think what you owe to the queen.”

  “To her and to you!” cried D’Artagnan. “Be satisfied, beautiful Constance. I shall become worthy of her gratitude; but shall I likewise return worthy of your love?”

  The young woman only replied by the beautiful gl
ow which mounted to her cheeks. A few seconds afterward D’Artagnan also went out enveloped in a large cloak, which ill-concealed the sheath of a long sword.

  Mme. Bonacieux followed him with her eyes, with that long, fond look with which a woman accompanies the man she loves; but when he had turned the angle of the street, she fell on her knees, and clasping her hands, “Oh, my God,” cried she, “protect the queen, protect me!”

  19

  PLAN OF CAMPAIGN

  D’Artagnan went straight to M. de Tréville’s. He had reflected that in a few minutes the cardinal would be warned by this cursed stranger, who appeared to be his agent, and he judged, with reason, he had not a moment to lose.

  The heart of the young man overflowed with joy. An opportunity presented itself to him in which there would be at the same time glory to be acquired, and money to be gained; and as a far higher encouragement, it brought him into close intimacy with a woman he adored. This chance did, then, for him at once more than he would have dared to ask of Providence.

  M. de Tréville was in his saloon with his habitual court of gentlemen. D’Artagnan, who was known as a familiar of the house, went straight to his office, and sent word that he wished to see him on something of importance.

  D’Artagnan had been there scarcely five minutes when M. de Tréville entered. At the first glance, and by the joy which was painted on his countenance, the worthy captain plainly perceived that something new was on foot.

  All the way along D’Artagnan had been consulting with himself whether he should place confidence in M. de Tréville, or whether he should only ask him to give him carte blanche for some secret affair. But M. de Tréville had always been so thoroughly his friend, had always been so devoted to the king and queen, and hated the cardinal so cordially, that the young man resolved to tell him everything.

  “Did you ask for me, my good friend?” said M. de Tréville.

  “Yes, monsieur,” said D’Artagnan. “You will pardon me, I hope, for having disturbed you, when you know the importance of my business.”