Essential Novelists - Alexandre Dumas. Alexandre Dumas

      “How, badly? What do you mean by that, you idiot?” asked d’Artagnan. “What has happened?”

      “All sorts of misfortunes.”

      “What?”

      “In the first place, Monsieur Athos is arrested.”

      “Arrested! Athos arrested! What for?”

      “He was found in your lodging; they took him for you.”

      “And by whom was he arrested?”

      “By Guards brought by the men in black whom you put to flight.”

      “Why did he not tell them his name? Why did he not tell them he knew nothing about this affair?”

      “He took care not to do so, monsieur; on the contrary, he came up to me and said, ‘It is your master that needs his liberty at this moment and not I, since he knows everything and I know nothing. They will believe he is arrested, and that will give him time; in three days I will tell them who I am, and they cannot fail to let me go.’”

      “Bravo, Athos! Noble heart!” murmured d’Artagnan. “I know him well there! And what did the officers do?”

      “Four conveyed him away, I don’t know where—to the Bastille or Fort l’Eveque. Two remained with the men in black, who rummaged every place and took all the papers. The last two mounted guard at the door during this examination; then, when all was over, they went away, leaving the house empty and exposed.”

      “And Porthos and Aramis?”

      “I could not find them; they did not come.”

      “But they may come any moment, for you left word that I awaited them?”

      “Yes, monsieur.”

      “Well, don’t budge, then; if they come, tell them what has happened. Let them wait for me at the Pomme-de-Pin. Here it would be dangerous; the house may be watched. I will run to Monsieur de Treville to tell them all this, and will meet them there.”

      “Very well, monsieur,” said Planchet.

      “But you will remain; you are not afraid?” said d’Artagnan, coming back to recommend courage to his lackey.

      “Be easy, monsieur,” said Planchet; “you do not know me yet. I am brave when I set about it. It is all in beginning. Besides, I am a Picard.”

      “Then it is understood,” said d’Artagnan; “you would rather be killed than desert your post?”

      “Yes, monsieur; and there is nothing I would not do to prove to Monsieur that I am attached to him.”

      “Good!” said d’Artagnan to himself. “It appears that the method I have adopted with this boy is decidedly the best. I shall use it again upon occasion.”

      And with all the swiftness of his legs, already a little fatigued, however, with the perambulations of the day, d’Artagnan directed his course toward M. de Treville’s.

      M de Treville was not at his hotel. His company was on guard at the Louvre; he was at the Louvre with his company.

      It was necessary to reach M. de Treville; it was important that he should be informed of what was passing. D’Artagnan resolved to try and enter the Louvre. His costume of Guardsman in the company of M. Dessessart ought to be his passport.

      He therefore went down the Rue des Petits Augustins, and came up to the quay, in order to take the New Bridge. He had at first an idea of crossing by the ferry; but on gaining the riverside, he had mechanically put his hand into his pocket, and perceived that he had not wherewithal to pay his passage.

      As he gained the top of the Rue Guenegaud, he saw two persons coming out of the Rue Dauphine whose appearance very much struck him. Of the two persons who composed this group, one was a man and the other a woman. The woman had the outline of Mme. Bonacieux; the man resembled Aramis so much as to be mistaken for him.

      Besides, the woman wore that black mantle which d’Artagnan could still see outlined on the shutter of the Rue de Vaugirard and on the door of the Rue de la Harpe; still further, the man wore the uniform of a Musketeer.

      The woman’s hood was pulled down, and the man held a handkerchief to his face. Both, as this double precaution indicated, had an interest in not being recognized.

      They took the bridge. That was d’Artagnan’s road, as he was going to the Louvre. D’Artagnan followed them.

      He had not gone twenty steps before he became convinced that the woman was really Mme. Bonacieux and that the man was Aramis.

      He felt at that instant all the suspicions of jealousy agitating his heart. He felt himself doubly betrayed, by his friend and by her whom he already loved like a mistress. Mme. Bonacieux had declared to him, by all the gods, that she did not know Aramis; and a quarter of an hour after having made this assertion, he found her hanging on the arm of Aramis.

      D’Artagnan did not reflect that he had only known the mercer’s pretty wife for three hours; that she owed him nothing but a little gratitude for having delivered her from the men in black, who wished to carry her off, and that she had promised him nothing. He considered himself an outraged, betrayed, and ridiculed lover. Blood and anger mounted to his face; he was resolved to unravel the mystery.

      The young man and young woman perceived they were watched, and redoubled their speed. D’Artagnan determined upon his course. He passed them, then returned so as to meet them exactly before the Samaritaine, which was illuminated by a lamp which threw its light over all that part of the bridge.

      D’Artagnan stopped before them, and they stopped before him.

      “What do you want, monsieur?” demanded the Musketeer, recoiling a step, and with a foreign accent, which proved to d’Artagnan that he was deceived in one of his conjectures.

      “It is not Aramis!” cried he.

      “No, monsieur, it is not Aramis; and by your exclamation I perceive you have mistaken me for another, and pardon you.”

      “You pardon me?” cried d’Artagnan.

      “Yes,” replied the stranger. “Allow me, then, to pass on, since it is not with me you have anything to do.”

      “You are right, monsieur, it is not with you that I have anything to do; it is with Madame.”

      “With Madame! You do not know her,” replied the stranger.

      “You are deceived, monsieur; I know her very well.”

      “Ah,” said Mme. Bonacieux; in a tone of reproach, “ah, monsieur, I had your promise as a soldier and your word as a gentleman. I hoped to be able to rely upon that.”

      “And I, madame!” said d’Artagnan, embarrassed; “you promised me—”

      “Take my arm, madame,” said the stranger, “and let us continue our way.”

      D’Artagnan, however, stupefied, cast down, annihilated by all that happened, stood, with crossed arms, before the Musketeer and Mme. Bonacieux.

      The Musketeer advanced two steps, and pushed d’Artagnan aside with his hand. D’Artagnan made a spring backward and drew his sword. At the same time, and with the rapidity of lightning, the stranger drew his.

      “In the name of heaven, my Lord!” cried Mme. Bonacieux, throwing herself between the combatants and seizing the swords with her hands.

      “My Lord!” cried d’Artagnan, enlightened by a sudden idea, “my Lord! Pardon me, monsieur, but you are not—”

      “My Lord the Duke of Buckingham,” said Mme. Bonacieux, in an undertone; “and now you may ruin us all.”

      “My Lord, Madame, I ask a hundred pardons! But I love her, my Lord, and was jealous.