It appeared, then, to D’Artagnan that M. Bonacieux wore a mask, and likewise that that mask was most disagreeable to look upon. In consequence of this feeling of repugnance, he was about to pass without speaking to him, but, as he had done the day before, M. Bonacieux accosted him.
“Well, young man,” said he, “we appear to pass rather gay nights! Seven o’clock in the morning!
Peste!
you seem to reverse ordinary customs, and come home at the hour when other people are going out.”
“No one can reproach you for anything of the kind, Monsieur Bonacieux,” said the young man; “you are a model for regular people. It is true that when a man possesses a young and pretty wife, he has no need to seek happiness elsewhere. Happiness comes to meet him, does it not, Monsieur Bonacieux?”
Bonacieux became as pale as death, and grinned a ghastly smile.
“Ah, ah!” said Bonacieux, “you are a jocular companion! But where the devil were you gadding last night, my young master? It does not appear to be very clean in the crossroads.”
DArtagnan glanced down at his boots, all covered with mud; but that same glance fell upon the shoes and stockings of the mercer, and it might have been said they had been dipped in the same mud heap. Both were stained with splashes of mud of the same appearance.
Then a sudden idea crossed the mind of D’Artagnan. That little stout man, short and elderly, that sort of lackey, dressed in dark clothes, treated without ceremony by the men wearing swords who composed the escort, was Bonacieux himself. The husband had presided at the abduction of his wife.
A terrible inclination seized D’Artagnan to grasp the mercer by the throat and strangle him; but, as we have said, he was a very prudent youth, and he restrained himself. However, the revolution which appeared upon his countenance was so visible that Bonacieux was terrified at it, and he endeavored to draw back a step or two; but as he was standing before the half of the door which was shut, the obstacle compelled him to keep his place.
“Ah, but you are joking, my worthy man!” said D’Artagnan. “It appears to me that if my boots need a sponge, your stockings and shoes stand in equal need of a brush. May you not have been philandering a little also, Monsieur Bonacieux? Oh, the devil! That’s unpardonable in a man of your age, and who, besides, has such a pretty young wife as yours.”
“Oh, Lord! no,” said Bonacieux, “but yesterday I went to St. Mandé to make some inquiries after a servant, as I cannot possibly do without one; and the roads were so bad that I brought back all this mud, which I have not yet had time to remove.”
The place named by Bonacieux as that which had been the object of his journey was a fresh proof in support of the suspicions D’Artagnan had conceived. Bonacieux had named Mandé because Mandé was in an exactly opposite direction from St. Cloud. This probability afforded him his first consolation. If Bonacieux knew where his wife was, one might, by extreme means, force the mercer to open his teeth and let his secret escape. The question, then, was how to change this probability into a certainty.
“Pardon, my dear Monsieur Bonacieux, if I don’t stand upon ceremony,” said D’Artagnan, “but nothing makes one so thirsty as want of sleep. I am parched with thirst. Allow me to take a glass of water in your apartment; you know that is never refused among neighbors.”
Without waiting for the permission of his host, D’Artagnan went quickly into the house, and cast a rapid glance at the bed. It had not been used. Bonacieux had not been abed. He had only been back an hour or two; he had accompanied his wife to the place of her confinement, or else at least to the first relay.
“Thanks, Monsieur Bonacieux,” said D’Artagnan, emptying his glass, “that is all I wanted of you. I will now go up into my apartment. I will make Planchet brush my boots; and when he has done, I will, if you like, send him to you to brush your shoes.”
He left the mercer quite astonished at his singular farewell, and asking himself if he had not been a little inconsiderate.
At the top of the stairs he found Planchet in a great fright.
“Ah, monsieur!” cried Planchet, as soon as he perceived his master, “here is more trouble. I thought you would never come in.”
“What’s the matter now, Planchet?” demanded D’Artagnan.
“Oh! I give you a hundred, I give you a thousand times to guess, monsieur, the visit I have received in your absence.”
“When?”
“About half an hour ago, while you were at Monsieur de Tréville’s.”
“Who has been here? Come, speak.”
“Monsieur de Cavois.”
“Monsieur de Cavois?”
“In person.”
“The captain of the cardinal’s Guards?”
“Himself.”
“Did he come to arrest me?”
“I have no doubt he did, monsieur, for all his wheedling manner.
“Was he so sweet, then?”
“Indeed, he was all honey, monsieur.”
“Indeed!”
“He came, he said, on the part of his Eminence, who wished you well, and to beg you to follow him to the Palais-Royal.”
t
“What did you answer him?”
“That the thing was impossible, seeing that you were not at home, as he could see.”
“Well, what did he say then?”
“That you must not fail to call upon him in the course of the day; and then he added in a low voice, ‘Tell your master that his Eminence is very well disposed toward him, and that his fortune perhaps depends upon this interview.’ ”
“The snare is rather
maladroit
for the cardinal,” replied the young man, smiling.
“Oh, I saw the snare, and I answered you would be quite in despair on your return.
“ ‘Where has he gone?’ asked Monsieur de Cavois.
“ ‘To Troyes, in Champagne,’ I answered.
“ ‘And when did he set out?’
“‘Yesterday evening.’ ”
“Planchet, my friend,” interrupted D’Artagnan, “you are really a precious fellow.”
“You will understand, monsieur, I thought there would be still time, if you wish, to see Monsieur de Cavois to contradict me by saying you were not yet gone. The falsehood would then lie at my door, and as I am not a gentleman, I may be allowed to lie.”
“Be of good heart, Planchet, you shall preserve your reputation as a veracious man. In a quarter of an hour we set off.”
“That’s the advice I was about to give Monsieur; and where are we going, may I ask, without being too curious?”
“Pardieu!
in the opposite direction to that which you said I was gone. Besides, are you not as anxious to learn news of Grimaud, Mousqueton, and Bazin, as I am to know what has become of Athos, Porthos, and Aramis?”
“Yes, monsieur,” said Planchet, “and I will go as soon as you please. Indeed, I think provincial air will suit us much better just now than the air of Paris. So then—”
“So then, pack up our luggage, Planchet, and let us be off. On my part, I will go out with my hands in my pockets, that nothing may be suspected. You may join me at the Hotel des Gardes. By the way, Planchet, I think you are right with respect to our host, and that he is decidedly a frightfully low wretch.”
“Ah, monsieur, you may take my word when I tell you anything. I am a physiognomist, I assure you.”
D‘Artagnan went out first, as had been agreed upon. Then, in order that he might have nothing to reproach himself with, he directed his steps, for the last time, toward the residences of his three friends. No news had been received of them; only a letter, all perfumed and of an elegant writing in small characters, had come for Aramis. D’Artagnan took charge of it. Ten minutes afterward Planchet joined him at the stables of the Hotel des Gardes. D’Artagnan, in order that there might be no time lost, had saddled his horse himself.
“That’s well,” said he to Planchet, when the latter added the portmanteau to the equipment. “Now saddle the other three horses.”
“Do you think, then, monsieur, that we shall travel faster with two horses apiece?” said Planchet, with his shrewd air.
“No, Monsieur Jester,” replied D’Artagnan; “but with our four horses we may bring back our three friends, if we should have the good fortune to find them living.”
“Which is a great chance,” replied Planchet, “but we must not despair of the mercy of God.”
“Amen!” said D’Artagnan, getting into his saddle.
As they went from the Hotel des Gardes, they separated, leaving the street at opposite ends, one having to quit Paris by the Barrière de la Villette and the other by the Barrière Montmartre, to meet again beyond St. Denis—a strategic maneuver which, having been executed with equal punctuality, was crowned with the most fortunate results. D’Artagnan and Planchet entered Pierre-fitte together.
Planchet was more courageous, it must be admitted, by day than by night. His natural prudence, however, never forsook him for a single instant. He had forgotten not one of the incidents of the first journey, and he looked upon everybody he met on the road as an enemy. It followed that his hat was forever in his hand, which procured him some severe reprimands from D’Artagnan, who feared that his excess of politeness would lead people to think he was the lackey of a man of no consequence.
Nevertheless, whether the passengers were really touched by the urbanity of Planchet or whether this time nobody was posted on the young man’s road, our two travelers arrived at Chantilly without any accident, and alighted at the tavern of Great St. Martin, the same at which they had stopped on their first journey.
The host, on seeing a young man followed by a lackey with two extra horses, advanced respectfully to the door. Now, as they had already traveled eleven leagues, D‘Artagnan thought it time to stop, whether Porthos were or were not in the inn. Perhaps it would not be prudent to ask at once what had become of the Musketeer. The result of these reflections was that D’Artagnan, without asking information of any kind, alighted, commended the horses to the care of his lackey, entered a small room destined to receive those who wished to be alone, and desired the host to bring him a bottle of his best wine and as good a breakfast as possible—a desire which further corroborated the high opinion the innkeeper had formed of the traveler at first sight.
D‘Artagnan was therefore served with miraculous celerity. The regiment of the Guards was recruited among the first gentlemen of the kingdom; and D’Artagnan, followed by a lackey, and traveling with four magnificent horses, despite the simplicity of his uniform, could not fail to make a sensation. The host desired himself to serve him; which D’Artagnan perceiving, ordered two glasses to be brought, and commenced the following conversation.
“My faith, my good host,” said D’Artagnan, filling the two glasses, “I asked for a bottle of your best wine, and if you have deceived me, you will be punished in what you have sinned; for seeing that I hate drinking by myself, you shall drink with me. Take your glass, then, and let us drink. But what shall we drink to, so as to avoid wounding any susceptibility? Let us drink to the prosperity of your establishment.”
“Your Lordship does me much honor,” said the host, “and I thank you sincerely for your kind wish.”
“But don’t mistake,” said D’Artagnan, “there is more selfishness in my toast than perhaps you may think—for it is only in prosperous establishments that one is well received. In hotels that do not flourish, everything is in confusion, and the traveler is a victim to the embarrassments of his host. Now, I travel a great deal, particularly on this road, and I wish to see all innkeepers making a fortune.”
“It seems to me,” said the host, “that this is not the first time I have had the honor of seeing Monsieur.”
“Bah, I have passed perhaps ten times through Chantilly, and out of the ten times I have stopped three or four times at your house at least. Why I was here only ten or twelve days ago. I was conducting some friends, Musketeers, one of whom, by the by, had a dispute with a stranger—a man who sought a quarrel with him, for I don’t know what.”
“Exactly so,” said the host; “I remember it perfectly. Is it not Monsieur Porthos that your Lordship means?”
“Yes, that is my companion’s name. My God, my dear host, tell me if anything has happened to him?”
“Your Lordship must have observed that he could not continue his journey.”
“Why, to be sure, he promised to rejoin us, and we have seen nothing of him.”
“He has done us the honor to remain here.”
“What, he has done you the honor to remain here?”
“Yes, monsieur, in this house; and we are even a little uneasy—”
“On what account?”
“Of certain expenses he has contracted.”
“Well, but whatever expenses he may have incurred, I am sure he is in a condition to pay them.”
“Ah, monsieur, you infuse genuine balm into my blood. We have made considerable advances; and this very morning the surgeon declared that if Monsieur Porthos did not pay him, he should look to me, as it was I who had sent for him.”
“Porthos is wounded, then?”
“I cannot tell you, monsieur.”
“What! You cannot tell me? Surely you ought to be able to tell me better than any other person.”
“Yes; but in our situation we must not say all we know—particularly as we have been warned that our ears should answer for our tongues.”
“Well, can I see Porthos?”
“Certainly, monsieur. Take the stairs on your right; go up the first flight and knock at Number One. Only warn him that it is you.”
“Why should I do that?”
“Because, monsieur, some mischief might happen to you.”
“Of what kind, in the name of wonder?”
“Monsieur Porthos may imagine you belong to the house, and in a fit of passion might run his sword through you or blow out your brains.”
“What have you done to him, then?”
“We have asked him for money.”
“The devil! Ah, I can understand that. It is a demand that Porthos takes very ill when he is not in funds; but I know he must be so at present”