Александр Дюма
The Three Musketeers
“Well, provided you replace your pistols in your belt.”
“Willingly.”
And d’Artagnan set the example. Then, turning toward Planchet, he made him a sign to uncock his musketoon.
The Englishmen, convinced of these peaceful proceedings, sheathed their swords grumblingly. The history of Athos’s imprisonment was then related to them; and as they were really gentlemen, they pronounced the host in the wrong.
“Now, gentlemen,” said d’Artagnan, “go up to your room again; and in ten minutes, I will answer for it, you shall have all you desire.”
The Englishmen bowed and went upstairs.
“Now I am alone, my dear Athos,” said d’Artagnan; “open the door, I beg of you.”
“Instantly,” said Athos.
Then was heard a great noise of fagots being removed and of the groaning of posts; these were the counterscarps and bastions of Athos, which the besieged himself demolished.
An instant after, the broken door was removed, and the pale face of Athos appeared, who with a rapid glance took a survey of the surroundings.
D’Artagnan threw himself on his neck and embraced him tenderly. He then tried to draw him from his moist abode, but to his surprise he perceived that Athos staggered.
“You are wounded,” said he.
“I! Not at all. I am dead drunk, that’s all, and never did a man more strongly set about getting so. By the Lord, my good host! I must at least have drunk for my part a hundred and fifty bottles.”
“Mercy!” cried the host, “if the lackey has drunk only half as much as the master, I am a ruined man.”
“Grimaud is a well-bred lackey. He would never think of faring in the same manner as his master; he only drank from the cask. Hark! I don’t think he put the faucet in again. Do you hear it? It is running now.”
D’Artagnan burst into a laugh which changed the shiver of the host into a burning fever.
In the meantime, Grimaud appeared in his turn behind his master, with the musketoon on his shoulder, and his head shaking. Like one of those drunken satyrs in the pictures of Rubens. He was moistened before and behind with a greasy liquid which the host recognized as his best olive oil.
The four crossed the public room and proceeded to take possession of the best apartment in the house, which d’Artagnan occupied with authority.
In the meantime the host and his wife hurried down with lamps into the cellar, which had so long been interdicted to them and where a frightful spectacle awaited them.
Beyond the fortifications through which Athos had made a breach in order to get out, and which were composed of fagots, planks, and empty casks, heaped up according to all the rules of the strategic art, they found, swimming in puddles of oil and wine, the bones and fragments of all the hams they had eaten; while a heap of broken bottles filled the whole left-hand corner of the cellar, and a tun, the cock of which was left running, was yielding, by this means, the last drop of its blood. “The image of devastation and death,” as the ancient poet says, “reigned as over a field of battle.”
Of fifty large sausages, suspended from the joists, scarcely ten remained.
Then the lamentations of the host and hostess pierced the vault of the cellar. D’Artagnan himself was moved by them. Athos did not even turn his head.
To grief succeeded rage. The host armed himself with a spit, and rushed into the chamber occupied by the two friends.
“Some wine!” said Athos, on perceiving the host.
“Some wine!” cried the stupefied host, “some wine? Why you have drunk more than a hundred pistoles’ worth! I am a ruined man, lost, destroyed!”
“Bah,” said Athos, “we were always dry.”
“If you had been contented with drinking, well and good; but you have broken all the bottles.”
“You pushed me upon a heap which rolled down. That was your fault.”
“All my oil is lost!”
“Oil is a sovereign balm for wounds; and my poor Grimaud here was obliged to dress those you had inflicted on him.”
“All my sausages are gnawed!”
“There is an enormous quantity of rats in that cellar.”
“You shall pay me for all this,” cried the exasperated host.
“Triple ass!” said Athos, rising; but he sank down again immediately. He had tried his strength to the utmost. D’Artagnan came to his relief with his whip in his hand.
The host drew back and burst into tears.
“This will teach you,” said d’Artagnan, “to treat the guests God sends you in a more courteous fashion.”
“God? Say the devil!”
“My dear friend,” said d’Artagnan, “if you annoy us in this manner we will all four go and shut ourselves up in your cellar, and we will see if the mischief is as great as you say.”
“Oh, gentlemen,” said the host, “I have been wrong. I confess it, but pardon to every sin! You are gentlemen, and I am a poor innkeeper. You will have pity on me.”
“Ah, if you speak in that way,” said Athos, “you will break my heart, and the tears will flow from my eyes as the wine flowed from the cask. We are not such devils as we appear to be. Come hither, and let us talk.”
The host approached with hesitation.
“Come hither, I say, and don’t be afraid,” continued Athos. “At the very moment when I was about to pay you, I had placed my purse on the table.”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“That purse contained sixty pistoles; where is it?”
“Deposited with the justice; they said it was bad money.”
“Very well; get me my purse back and keep the sixty pistoles.”
“But Monseigneur knows very well that justice never lets go that which it once lays hold of. If it were bad money, there might be some hopes; but unfortunately, those were all good pieces.”
“Manage the matter as well as you can, my good man; it does not concern me, the more so as I have not a livre left.”
“Come,” said d’Artagnan, “let us inquire further. Athos’s horse, where is that?”
“In the stable.”
“How much is it worth?”
“Fifty pistoles at most.”
“It’s worth eighty. Take it, and there ends the matter.”
“What,” cried Athos, “are you selling my horse-my Bajazet? And pray upon what shall I make my campaign; upon Grimaud?”
“I have brought you another,” said d’Artagnan.
“Another?”
“And a magnificent one!” cried the host.
“Well, since there is another finer and younger, why, you may take the old one; and let us drink.”
“What?” asked the host, quite cheerful again.
“Some of that at the bottom, near the laths. There are twenty-five bottles of it left; all the rest were broken by my fall. Bring six of them.”
“Why, this man is a cask!” said the host, aside. “If he only remains here a fortnight, and pays for what he drinks, I shall soon re-establish my business.”
“And don’t forget,” said d’Artagnan, “to bring up four bottles of the same sort for the two English gentlemen.”
“And now,” said Athos, “while they bring the wine, tell me, d’Artagnan, what has become of the others, come!”
D’Artagnan related how he had found Porthos in bed with a strained knee, and Aramis at a table between two theologians. As he finished, the host entered with the wine ordered and a ham which, fortunately for him, had been left out of the cellar.
“That’s well!” said Athos, filling his glass and that of his friend; “here’s to Porthos and Aramis! But you, d’Artagnan, what is the matter with you, and what has happened to you personally? You have a sad air.”
“Alas,” said d’Artagnan, “it is because I am the most unfortunate.”
“Tell me.”
“Presently,” said d’Artagnan.
“Presently! And why presently? Because you think I am drunk? D’Artagnan, remember this! My ideas are never so clear as when I have had plenty of wine. Speak, then, I am all ears.”
D’Artagnan related his adventure with Mme. Bonacieux. Athos listened to him without a frown; and when he had finished, said, “Trifles, only trifles!” That was his favorite word.
“You always say TRIFLES, my dear Athos!” said d’Artagnan, “and that come very ill from you, who have never loved.”
The drink-deadened eye of Athos flashed out, but only for a moment; it became as dull and vacant as before.
“That’s true,” said he, quietly, “for my part I have never loved.”
“Acknowledge, then, you stony heart,” said d’Artagnan, “that you are wrong to be so hard upon us tender hearts.”
“Tender hearts! Pierced hearts!” said Athos.
“What do you say?”
“I say that love is a lottery in which he who wins, wins death! You are very fortunate to have lost, believe me, my dear d’Artagnan. And if I have any counsel to give, it is, always lose!”
“She seemed to love me so!”
“She SEEMED, did she?”
“Oh, she DID love me!”
“You child, why, there is not a man who has not believed, as you do, that his mistress loved him, and there lives not a man who has not been deceived by his mistress.”
“Except you, Athos, who never had one.”
“That’s true,” said Athos, after a moment’s silence, “that’s true! I never had one! Let us drink!”
“But then, philosopher that you are,” said d’Artagnan, “instruct me, support me. I stand in need of being taught and consoled.”
“Consoled for what?”
“For my misfortune.”
“Your misfortune is laughable,” said Athos, shrugging his shoulders; “I should like to know what you would say if I were to relate to you a real tale of love!”
“Which has happened to you?”
“Or one of my friends, what matters?”
“Tell it, Athos, tell it.”
“Better if I drink.”
“Drink and relate, then.”
“Not a bad idea!” said Athos, emptying and refilling his glass. “The two things agree marvelously well.”
“I am all attention,” said d’Artagnan.
Athos collected himself, and in proportion as he did so, d’Artagnan saw that he became pale. He was at that period of intoxication in which vulgar drinkers fall on the floor and go to sleep. He kept himself upright and dreamed, without sleeping. This somnambulism of drunkenness had something frightful in it.
“You particularly wish it?” asked he.
“I pray for it,” said d’Artagnan.
“Be it then as you desire. One of my friends-one of my friends, please to observe, not myself,” said Athos, interrupting himself with a melancholy smile, “one of the counts of my province-that is to say, of Berry-noble as a Dandolo or a Montmorency, at twenty-five years of age fell in love with a girl of sixteen, beautiful as fancy can paint. Through the ingenuousness of her age beamed an ardent mind, not of the woman, but of the poet. She did not please; she intoxicated. She lived in a small town with her brother, who was a curate. Both had recently come into the country. They came nobody knew whence; but when seeing her so lovely and her brother so pious, nobody thought of asking whence they came. They were said, however, to be of good extraction. My friend, who was seigneur of the country, might have seduced her, or taken her by force, at his will-for he was master. Who would have come to the assistance of two strangers, two unknown persons? Unfortunately he was an honorable man; he married her. The fool! The ass! The idiot!”
“How so, if he love her?” asked d’Artagnan.
“Wait,” said Athos. “He took her to his chateau, and made her the first lady in the province; and in justice it must be allowed that she supported her rank becomingly.”
“Well?” asked d’Artagnan.
“Well, one day when she was hunting with her husband,” continued Athos, in a low voice, and speaking very quickly, “she fell from her horse and fainted. The count flew to her to help, and as she appeared to be oppressed by her clothes, he ripped them open with his poniard, and in so doing laid bare her shoulder. D’Artagnan,” said Athos, with a maniacal burst of laughter, “guess what she had on her shoulder.”
“How can I tell?” said d’Artagnan.
“A FLEUR-DE-LIS,” said Athos. “She was branded.”
Athos emptied at a single draught the glass he held in his hand.
“Horror!” cried d’Artagnan. “What do you tell me?”
“Truth, my friend. The angel was a demon; the poor young girl had stolen the sacred vessels from a church.”
“And what did the count do?”
“The count was of the highest nobility. He had on his estates the rights of high and low tribunals. He tore the dress of the countess to pieces; he tied her hands behind her, and hanged her on a tree.”
“Heavens, Athos, a murder?” cried d’Artagnan.
“No less,” said Athos, as pale as a corpse. “But methinks I need wine!” and he seized by the neck the last bottle that was left, put it to his mouth, and emptied it at a single draught, as he would have emptied an ordinary glass.
Then he let his head sink upon his two hands, while d’Artagnan stood before him, stupefied.
“That has cured me of beautiful, poetical, and loving women,” said Athos, after a considerable pause, raising his head, and forgetting to continue the fiction of the count. “God grant you as much! Let us drink.”
“Then she is dead?” stammered d’Artagnan.
“PARBLEU!” said Athos. “But hold out your glass. Some ham, my boy, or we can’t drink.”
“And her brother?” added d’Artagnan, timidly.
“Her brother?” replied Athos.
“Yes, the priest.”
“Oh, I inquired after him for the purpose of hanging him likewise; but he was beforehand with me, he had quit the curacy the night before.”
“Was it ever known who this miserable fellow was?”
“He was doubtless the first lover and accomplice of the fair lady. A worthy man, who had pretended to be a curate for the purpose of getting his mistress married, and securing her a position. He has been hanged and quartered, I hope.”
“My God, my God!” cried d’Artagnan, quite stunned by the relation of this horrible adventure.
“Taste some of this ham, d’Artagnan; it is exquisite,” said Athos, cutting a slice, which he placed on the young man’s plate.
“What a pity it is there were only four like this in the cellar. I could have drunk fifty bottles more.”
D’Artagnan could no longer endure this conversation, which had made him bewildered. Allowing his head to sink upon his two hands, he pretended to sleep.
“These young fellows can none of them drink,” said Athos, looking at him with pity, “and yet this is one of the best!”
28 THE RETURN
D’Artagnan was astounded by the terrible confidence of Athos; yet many things appeared very obscure to him in this half revelation. In the first place it had been made by a man quite drunk to one who was half drunk; and yet, in spite of the incertainty which the vapor of three or four bottles of Burgundy carries with it to the brain, d’Artagnan, when awaking on the following morning, had all the words of Athos as present to his memory as if they then fell from his mouth-they had been so impressed upon his mind. All this doubt only gave rise to a more lively desire of arriving at a certainty, and he went into his friend’s chamber with a fixed determination of renewing the conversation of the preceding evening; but he found Athos quite himself again-that is to say, the most shrewd and impenetrable of men. Besides which, the Musketeer, after having exchanged a hearty shake of the hand with him, broached the matter first.
“I was pretty drunk yesterday, d’Artagnan,” said he, “I can tell that by my tongue, which was swollen and hot this morning, and by my pulse, which was very tremulous. I wager that I uttered a thousand extravagances.”
While saying this he looked at his friend with an earnestness that embarrassed him.
“No,” replied d’Artagnan, “if I recollect well what you said, it was nothing out of the common way.”
“Ah, you surprise me. I thought I had told you a most lamentable story.” And he looked at the young man as if he would read the bottom of his heart.
“My faith,” said d’Artagnan, “it appears that I was more drunk than you, since I remember nothing of the kind.”
Athos did not trust this reply, and he resumed; “you cannot have failed to remark, my dear friend, that everyone has his particular kind of drunkenness, sad or gay. My drunkenness is always sad, and when I am thoroughly drunk my mania is to relate all the lugubrious stories which my foolish nurse inculcated into my brain. That is my failing-a capital failing, I admit; but with that exception, I am a good drinker.”
Athos spoke this in so natural a manner that d’Artagnan was shaken in his conviction.
“It is that, then,” replied the young man, anxious to find out the truth, “it is that, then, I remember as we remember a dream. We were speaking of hanging.”
“Ah, you see how it is,” said Athos, becoming still paler, but yet attempting to laugh; “I was sure it was so-the hanging of people is my nightmare.”
“Yes, yes,” replied d’Artagnan. “I remember now; yes, it was about-stop a minute-yes, it was about a woman.”
“That’s it,” replied Athos, becoming almost livid; “that is my grand story of the fair lady, and when I relate that, I must be very drunk.”
“Yes, that was it,” said d’Artagnan, “the story of a tall, fair lady, with blue eyes.”
“Yes, who was hanged.”
“By her husband, who was a nobleman of your acquaintance,” continued d’Artagnan, looking intently at Athos.
“Well, you see how a man may compromise himself when he does not know what he says,” replied Athos, shrugging his shoulders as if he thought himself an object of pity. “I certainly never will get drunk again, d’Artagnan; it is too bad a habit.”
D’Artagnan remained silent; and then changing the conversation all at once, Athos said:
“By the by, I thank you for the horse you have brought me.”
“Is it to your mind?” asked d’Artagnan.
“Yes; but it is not a horse for hard work.”
“You are mistaken; I rode him nearly ten leagues in less than an hour and a half, and he appeared no more distressed than if he had only made the tour of the Place St. Sulpice.”
“Ah, you begin to awaken my regret.”
“Regret?”
“Yes; I have parted with him.”
“How?”
“Why, here is the simple fact. This morning I awoke at six o’clock. You were still fast asleep, and I did not know what to do with myself; I was still stupid from our yesterday’s debauch. As I came into the public room, I saw one of our Englishman bargaining with a dealer for a horse, his own having died yesterday from bleeding. I drew near, and found he was bidding a hundred pistoles for a chestnut nag. ‘PARDIEU,’ said I, ‘my good gentleman, I have a horse to sell, too.’ ‘Ay, and a very fine one! I saw him yesterday; your friend’s lackey was leading him.’ ‘Do you think he is worth a hundred pistoles?’ ‘Yes! Will you sell him to me for that sum?’ ‘No; but I will play for him.’ ‘What?’ ‘At dice.’ No sooner said than done, and I lost the horse. Ah, ah! But please to observe I won back the equipage,” cried Athos.
D’Artagnan looked much disconcerted.
“This vexes you?” said Athos.
“Well, I must confess it does,” replied d’Artagnan. “That horse was to have identified us in the day of battle. It was a pledge, a remembrance. Athos, you have done wrong.”
“But, my dear friend, put yourself in my place,” replied the Musketeer. “I was hipped to death; and still further, upon my honor, I don’t like English horses. If it is only to be recognized, why the saddle will suffice for that; it is quite remarkable enough. As to the horse, we can easily find some excuse for its disappearance. Why the devil! A horse is mortal; suppose mine had had the glanders or the farcy?”
D’Artagnan did not smile.
“It vexes me greatly,” continued Athos, “that you attach so much importance to these animals, for I am not yet at the end of my story.”
“What else have you done.”
“After having lost my own horse, nine against ten-see how near-I formed an idea of staking yours.”
“Yes; but you stopped at the idea, I hope?”
“No; for I put it in execution that very minute.”
“And the consequence?” said d’Artagnan, in great anxiety.
“I threw, and I lost.”
“What, my horse?”
“Your horse, seven against eight; a point short-you know the proverb.”
“Athos, you are not in your right senses, I swear.”
“My dear lad, that was yesterday, when I was telling you silly stories, it was proper to tell me that, and not this morning. I lost him then, with all his appointments and furniture.”
“Really, this is frightful.”
“Stop a minute; you don’t know all yet. I should make an excellent gambler if I were not too hot-headed; but I was hot-headed, just as if I had been drinking. Well, I was not hot-headed then-”
“Well, but what else could you play for? You had nothing left?”
“Oh, yes, my friend; there was still that diamond left which sparkles on your finger, and which I had observed yesterday.”
“This diamond!” said d’Artagnan, placing his hand eagerly on his ring.
“And as I am a connoisseur in such things, having had a few of my own once, I estimated it at a thousand pistoles.”
“I hope,” said d’Artagnan, half dead with fright, “you made no mention of my diamond?”
“On the contrary, my dear friend, this diamond became our only resource; with it I might regain our horses and their harnesses, and even money to pay our expenses on the road.”
“Athos, you make me tremble!” cried d’Artagnan.
“I mentioned your diamond then to my adversary, who had likewise remarked it. What the devil, my dear, do you think you can wear a star from heaven on your finger, and nobody observe it? Impossible!”
“Go on, go on, my dear fellow!” said d’Artagnan; “for upon my honor, you will kill me with your indifference.”
“We divided, then, this diamond into ten parts of a hundred pistoles each.”
“You are laughing at me, and want to try me!” said d’Artagnan, whom anger began to take by the hair, as Minerva takes Achilles, in the ILLIAD.
“No, I do not jest, MORDIEU! I should like to have seen you in my place! I had been fifteen days without seeing a human face, and had been left to brutalize myself in the company of bottles.”
“That was no reason for staking my diamond!” replied d’Artagnan, closing his hand with a nervous spasm.
“Hear the end. Ten parts of a hundred pistoles each, in ten throws, without revenge; in thirteen throws I had lost all-in thirteen throws. The number thirteen was always fatal to me; it was on the thirteenth of July that-”
“VENTREBLEU!” cried d’Artagnan, rising from the table, the story of the present day making him forget that of the preceding one.
“Patience!” said Athos; “I had a plan. The Englishman was an original; I had seen him conversing that morning with Grimaud, and Grimaud had told me that he had made him proposals to enter into his service. I staked Grimaud, the silent Grimaud, divided into ten portions.”
“Well, what next?” said d’Artagnan, laughing in spite of himself.
“Grimaud himself, understand; and with the ten parts of Grimaud, which are not worth a ducatoon, I regained the diamond. Tell me, now, if persistence is not a virtue?”
“My faith! But this is droll,” cried d’Artagnan, consoled, and holding his sides with laughter.
“You may guess, finding the luck turned, that I again staked the diamond.”
“The devil!” said d’Artagnan, becoming angry again.
“I won back your harness, then your horse, then my harness, then my horse, and then I lost again. In brief, I regained your harness and then mine. That’s where we are. That was a superb throw, so I left off there.”
D’Artagnan breathed as if the whole hostelry had been removed from his breast.
“Then the diamond is safe?” said he, timidly.
“Intact, my dear friend; besides the harness of your Bucephalus and mine.”
“But what is the use of harnesses without horses?”
“I have an idea about them.”
“Athos, you make me shudder.”
“Listen to me. You have not played for a long time, d’Artagnan.”
“And I have no inclination to play.”
“Swear to nothing. You have not played for a long time, I said; you ought, then, to have a good hand.”
“Well, what then?”
“Well; the Englishman and his companion are still here. I remarked that he regretted the horse furniture very much. You appear to think much of your horse. In your place I would stake the furniture against the horse.”
“But he will not wish for only one harness.”
“Stake both, PARDIEU! I am not selfish, as you are.”
“You would do so?” said d’Artagnan, undecided, so strongly did the confidence of Athos begin to prevail, in spite of himself.
“On my honor, in one single throw.”
“But having lost the horses, I am particularly anxious to preserve the harnesses.”
“Stake your diamond, then.”
“This? That’s another matter. Never, never!”
“The devil!” said Athos. “I would propose to you to stake Planchet, but as that has already been done, the Englishman would not, perhaps, be willing.”
“Decidedly, my dear Athos,” said d’Artagnan, “I should like better not to risk anything.”
“That’s a pity,” said Athos, coolly. “The Englishman is overflowing with pistoles. Good Lord, try one throw! One throw is soon made!”
“And if I lose?”
“You will win.”
“But if I lose?”
“Well, you will surrender the harnesses.”
“Have with you for one throw!” said d’Artagnan.
Athos went in quest of the Englishman, whom he found in the stable, examining the harnesses with a greedy eye. The opportunity was good. He proposed the conditions-the two harnesses, either against one horse or a hundred pistoles. The Englishman calculated fast; the two harnesses were worth three hundred pistoles. He consented.
D’Artagnan threw the dice with a trembling hand, and turned up the number three; his paleness terrified Athos, who, however, consented himself with saying, “That’s a sad throw, comrade; you will have the horses fully equipped, monsieur.”
The Englishman, quite triumphant, did not even give himself the trouble to shake the dice. He threw them on the table without looking at them, so sure was he of victory; d’Artagnan turned aside to conceal his ill humor.
“Hold, hold, hold!” said Athos, wit his quiet tone; “that throw of the dice is extraordinary. I have not seen such a one four times in my life. Two aces!”
The Englishman looked, and was seized with astonishment. D’Artagnan looked, and was seized with pleasure.
“Yes,” continued Athos, “four times only; once at the house of Monsieur Crequy; another time at my own house in the country, in my chateau at-when I had a chateau; a third time at Monsieur de Treville’s where it surprised us all; and the fourth time at a cabaret, where it fell to my lot, and where I lost a hundred louis and a supper on it.”
“Then Monsieur takes his horse back again,” said the Englishman.
“Certainly,” said d’Artagnan.
“Then there is no revenge?”
“Our conditions said, ‘No revenge,’ you will please to recollect.”
“That is true; the horse shall be restored to your lackey, monsieur.”
“A moment,” said Athos; “with your permission, monsieur, I wish to speak a word with my friend.”
“Say on.”
Athos drew d’Artagnan aside.
“Well, Tempter, what more do you want with me?” said d’Artagnan. “You want me to throw again, do you not?”
“No, I would wish you to reflect.”
“On what?”
“You mean to take your horse?”
“Without doubt.”
“You are wrong, then. I would take the hundred pistoles. You know you have staked the harnesses against the horse or a hundred pistoles, at your choice.”
“Yes.”
“Well, then, I repeat, you are wrong. What is the use of one horse for us two? I could not ride behind. We should look like the two sons of Anmon, who had lost their brother. You cannot think of humiliating me by prancing along by my side on that magnificent charger. For my part, I should not hesitate a moment; I should take the hundred pistoles. We want money for our return to Paris.”
“I am much attached to that horse, Athos.”
“And there again you are wrong. A horse slips and injures a joint; a horse stumbles and breaks his knees to the bone; a horse eats out of a manger in which a glandered horse has eaten. There is a horse, while on the contrary, the hundred pistoles feed their master.”
“But how shall we get back?”
“Upon our lackey’s horses, PARDIEU. Anybody may see by our bearing that we are people of condition.”
“Pretty figures we shall cut on ponies while Aramis and Porthos caracole on their steeds.”
“Aramis! Porthos!” cried Athos, and laughed aloud.
“What is it?” asked d’Artagnan, who did not at all comprehend the hilarity of his friend.
“Nothing, nothing! Go on!”
“Your advice, then?”
“To take the hundred pistoles, d’Artagnan. With the hundred pistoles we can live well to the end of the month. We have undergone a great deal of fatigue, remember, and a little rest will do no harm.”
“I rest? Oh, no, Athos. Once in Paris, I shall prosecute my search for that unfortunate woman!”
“Well, you may be assured that your horse will not be half so serviceable to you for that purpose as good golden louis. Take the hundred pistoles, my friend; take the hundred pistoles!”
D’Artagnan only required one reason to be satisfied. This last reason appeared convincing. Besides, he feared that by resisting longer he should appear selfish in the eyes of Athos. He acquiesced, therefore, and chose the hundred pistoles, which the Englishman paid down on the spot.
They then determined to depart. Peace with the landlord, in addition to Athos’s old horse, cost six pistoles. D’Artagnan and Athos took the nags of Planchet and Grimaud, and the two lackeys started on foot, carrying the saddles on their heads.
However ill our two friends were mounted, they were soon far in advance of their servants, and arrived at Creveccoeur. From a distance they perceived Aramis, seated in a melancholy manner at his window, looking out, like Sister Anne, at the dust in the horizon.
“HOLA, Aramis! What the devil are you doing there?” cried the two friends.
“Ah, is that you, d’Artagnan, and you, Athos?” said the young man. “I was reflecting upon the rapidity with which the blessings of this world leave us. My English horse, which has just disappeared amid a cloud of dust, has furnished me with a living image of the fragility of the things of the earth. Life itself may be resolved into three words: ERAT, EST, FUIT.”
“Which means-” said d’Artagnan, who began to suspect the truth.
“Which means that I have just been duped-sixty louis for a horse which by the manner of his gait can do at least five leagues an hour.”
D’Artagnan and Athos laughed aloud.
“My dear d’Artagnan,” said Aramis, “don’t be too angry with me, I beg. Necessity has no law; besides, I am the person punished, as that rascally horsedealer has robbed me of fifty louis, at least. Ah, you fellows are good managers! You ride on our lackey’s horses, and have your own gallant steeds led along carefully by hand, at short stages.”
At the same instant a market cart, which some minutes before had appeared upon the Amiens road, pulled up at the inn, and Planchet and Grimaud came out of it with the saddles on their heads. The cart was returning empty to Paris, and the two lackeys had agreed, for their transport, to slake the wagoner’s thirst along the route.
