The Three Musketeers

On the first Monday of the month of April, 1625, the market town of Meung, in which the author of Romance of the Rose was born, appeared to be in as perfect a state of revolution as if the Huguenots had just made a second La Rochelle of it. Many citizens, seeing the women flying toward the High Street, leaving their children crying at the open doors, hastened to don the cuirass, and supporting their somewhat uncertain courage with a musket or a partisan, directed their steps toward the hostelry of the Jolly Miller, before which was gathered, increasing every minute, a compact group, vociferous and full of curiosity.

In those times panics were common, and few days passed without some city or other registering in its archives an event of this kind. There were nobles, who made war against each other; there was the king, who made war against the cardinal; there was Spain, which made war against the king. Then, in addition to these concealed or public, secret or open wars, there were robbers, mendicants, Huguenots, wolves, and scoundrels, who made war upon everybody. The citizens always took up arms readily against thieves, wolves or scoundrels, often against nobles or Huguenots, sometimes against the king, but never against the cardinal or Spain.

“I say, sir, you sir, who are hiding yourself behind that shutter⁠—yes, you, sir, tell me what you are laughing at, and we will laugh together!”

The gentleman raised his eyes slowly from the nag to his cavalier, as if he required some time to ascertain whether it could be to him that such strange reproaches were addressed; then, when he could not possibly entertain any doubt of the matter, his eyebrows slightly bent, and with an accent of irony and insolence impossible to be described, he replied to d’Artagnan, “I was not speaking to you, sir.”

“But I am speaking to you!” replied the young man, additionally exasperated with this mixture of insolence and good manners, of politeness and scorn.

The stranger looked at him again with a slight smile, and retiring from the window, came out of the hostelry with a slow step, and placed himself before the horse, within two paces of d’Artagnan. His quiet manner and the ironical expression of his countenance redoubled the mirth of the persons with whom he had been talking, and who still remained at the window.

D’Artagnan, seeing him approach, drew his sword a foot out of the scabbard.

“This horse is decidedly, or rather has been in his youth, a buttercup,” resumed the stranger, continuing the remarks he had begun, and addressing himself to his auditors at the window, without paying the least attention to the exasperation of d’Artagnan, who, however, placed himself between him and them. “It is a color very well known in botany, but till the present time very rare among horses.”

“My faith!” replied d’Artagnan, recognizing Athos, who, after the dressing performed by the doctor, was returning to his own apartment. “I did not do it intentionally, and not doing it intentionally, I said ‘Excuse me.’ It appears to me that this is quite enough. I repeat to you, however, and this time on my word of honor⁠—I think perhaps too often⁠—that I am in haste, great haste. Leave your hold, then, I beg of you, and let me go where my business calls me.”

“Monsieur,” said Athos, letting him go, “you are not polite; it is easy to perceive that you come from a distance.”

D’Artagnan had already strode down three or four stairs, but at Athos’s last remark he stopped short.

“Morbleu, Monsieur!” said he, “however far I may come, it is not you who can give me a lesson in good manners, I warn you.”

“Perhaps,” said Athos.

“Ah! If I were not in such haste, and if I were not running after someone,” said d’Artagnan.

“Monsieur Man-in-a-hurry, you can find me without running⁠—me, you understand?”

“And where, I pray you?”

“Near the Carmes-Deschaux.”

“At what hour?”

“About noon.”

“About noon? That will do; I will be there.”

“Endeavor not to make me wait; for at quarter past twelve I will cut off your ears as you run.”

“Good!” cried d’Artagnan, “I will be there ten minutes before twelve.” And he set off running as if the devil possessed him, hoping that he might yet find the stranger, whose slow pace could not have carried him far.

“But not until two o’clock,” said d’Artagnan, with the same calmness.

“But what are you going to fight about, Athos?” asked Aramis.

“Faith! I don’t very well know. He hurt my shoulder. And you, Porthos?”

“Faith! I am going to fight⁠—because I am going to fight,” answered Porthos, reddening.

Athos, whose keen eye lost nothing, perceived a faintly sly smile pass over the lips of the young Gascon as he replied, “We had a short discussion upon dress.”

“And you, Aramis?” asked Athos.

“Oh, ours is a theological quarrel,” replied Aramis, making a sign to d’Artagnan to keep secret the cause of their duel.

Athos indeed saw a second smile on the lips of d’Artagnan.

“Indeed?” said Athos.

“Yes; a passage of St. Augustine, upon which we could not agree,” said the Gascon.

“Decidedly, this is a clever fellow,” murmured Athos.

“And now you are assembled, gentlemen,” said d’Artagnan, “permit me to offer you my apologies.”

At this word apologies, a cloud passed over the brow of Athos, a haughty smile curled the lip of Porthos, and a negative sign was the reply of Aramis.

“You do not understand me, gentlemen,” said d’Artagnan, throwing up his head, the sharp and bold lines of which were at the moment gilded by a bright ray of the sun. “I asked to be excused in case I should not be able to discharge my debt to all three; for M. Athos has the right to kill me first, which must much diminish the face-value of your bill, M. Porthos, and render yours almost null, M. Aramis. And now, gentlemen, I repeat, excuse me, but on that account only, and⁠—on guard!”

The tree was easy to climb. Besides, d’Artagnan was but twenty years old, and consequently had not yet forgotten his schoolboy habits. In an instant he was among the branches, and his keen eyes plunged through the transparent panes into the interior of the pavilion.

It was a strange thing, and one which made d’Artagnan tremble from the sole of his foot to the roots of his hair, to find that this soft light, this calm lamp, enlightened a scene of fearful disorder. One of the windows was broken, the door of the chamber had been beaten in and hung, split in two, on its hinges. A table, which had been covered with an elegant supper, was overturned. The decanters broken in pieces, and the fruits crushed, strewed the floor. Everything in the apartment gave evidence of a violent and desperate struggle. D’Artagnan even fancied he could recognize amid this strange disorder, fragments of garments, and some bloody spots staining the cloth and the curtains. He hastened to descend into the street, with a frightful beating at his heart; he wished to see if he could find other traces of violence.

The little soft light shone on in the calmness of the night. D’Artagnan then perceived a thing that he had not before remarked⁠—for nothing had led him to the examination⁠—that the ground, trampled here and hoofmarked there, presented confused traces of men and horses. Besides, the wheels of a carriage, which appeared to have come from Paris, had made a deep impression in the soft earth, which did not extend beyond the pavilion, but turned again toward Paris.