Chapter 42 - The Council of the Musketeers
The bastion was occupied only by a dozen dead bodies, French and Rochellais.
“Gentlemen,” said Athos, who had assumed the command of the expedition, “while Grimaud is laying out the

breakfast, let us begin by getting together the guns and cartridges; we can talk while performing that task. These

gentlemen,” added he, pointing to the bodies, “will not hear us.”
“But still we might throw them into the ditch,” said Porthos, “after assuring ourselves they have nothing in

their pockets.”
“Yes,” said Athos; “that’s Grimaud’s business.”
“Well, then,” cried D’Artagnan, “let Grimaud search them, and throw them over the walls.”
“By no means,” said Athos; “they may be useful to us.”
“These dead bodies useful to us?” exclaimed Porthos. “Why, you are crazy, my dear friend.”
“‘Judge not rashly,’ say the Gospels and the cardinal,” replied Athos. “How many guns, gentlemen?”
“Twelve,” replied Aramis.
“How many cartridges?”
“A hundred.”
“That’s quite as many as we shall want. Let us load the guns.”
The four musketeers went to work. As they were loading the last musket Grimaud signified that breakfast was ready.
Athos replied, still by gestures, that it was all right, and showed Grimaud a kind of pepper-box, making him

understand that he was to stand as sentinel. Only, to alleviate the tedium of the duty, Athos allowed him to take

a loaf, two cutlets, and a bottle of wine.
“And now, to table,” said Athos.
The four friends sat down on the ground, with their legs crossed, like Turks or tailors.
“But the secret?” said D’Artagnan.
“The secret is,” said Athos, “that I saw milady last night.”
D’Artagnan was lifting a glass to his lips, but at the mention of milady his hand shook so that he put the glass

on the ground again, for fear of spilling the contents.
“You saw your wi—”
“Hush!” interrupted Athos; “you forget, my dear D’Artagnan, that these gentlemen have not been initiated, as

you have, into the secrets of my family affairs. I saw milady.”
“And where?” demanded D’Artagnan.
“About two leagues from here, at the tavern of the Red Dovecot.” And Athos told D’Artagnan of the events that

had taken place at the tavern.
“Do you know,” said Porthos, “that to twist that damned milady’s neck would be less of a sin than to twist the

necks of these poor Huguenot devils, who have committed no other crimes than singing in French the Psalms that we

sing in Latin?”
“What says the abbé?” asked Athos quietly.
“I say I am entirely of Porthos’s opinion,” replied Aramis.
“And I too,” said D’Artagnan.
“Fortunately, she is a good way off,” said Porthos, “for I confess she would make me very uncomfortable if she

were here.”
“She makes me uncomfortable in England as well as in France,” said Athos.
“She makes me uncomfortable wherever she is,” said D’Artagnan.
“But when you had her in your power, why did you not drown, her, or strangle her, or hang her?” said Porthos. “

It is only the dead who don’t come back again.”
“You think so, do you, Porthos?” replied the musketeer, with a sad smile, which D’Artagnan alone understood.
“I have an idea,” said D’Artagnan.
“What is it?” cried the musketeers.
“To arms!” shouted Grimaud.
The young men sprang up and seized their muskets.
A small troop advanced, consisting of from twenty to twenty-five men; they were soldiers of the garrison.
“Shall we return to the camp?” suggested Porthos. “I don’t think the sides are equal.”
“Impossible, for three reasons,” replied Athos. “The first is, that we have not finished breakfast; the second

is, that we have still some very important things to talk about; and the third is, that it yet lacks ten minutes

before the hour will be over.”
“Well, then,” said Aramis, “we must form a plan of battle.”
“It’s very simple,” replied Athos. “As soon as the enemy are within range, we must fire on them. If they

continue to advance, we must fire again. We must fire as long as we have loaded guns. Then, if the rest of the

troop persist in mounting to the assault, we will allow the besiegers to reach the ditch, and then we will push

down on their heads that strip of wall which seems to stand only by a miracle of equilibrium.”
“Bravo!” cried Porthos. “Decidedly, Athos, you were born to be a general, and the cardinal, who fancies himself

a great captain, is nothing to you.”
“Gentlemen,” said Athos, “no divided attention, I beg. Let each one pick out his man.”

“I cover mine,” said D’Artagnan.
“And I mine,” said Porthos.
“And I idem,” said Aramis.
“Fire, then!” said Athos.
The four muskets made but one report, but four men fell.
The drum immediately beat, and the little troop advanced double-quick.
Then the musket-shots were repeated without regularity, but always aimed with the same correctness. Nevertheless,

as if they had been aware of the numerical weakness of the friends, the Rochellais continued to advance on the

run.
At every three shots at least two men fell; but the approach of those who remained was not slackened.
On reaching the foot of the bastion, there were still more than a dozen or fifteen of the enemy. A last discharge

welcomed them, but did not stop them. They leaped into the ditch, and prepared to scale the breach.
“Now, my friends,” said Athos, “finish them at a blow. To the wall! to the wall!”
And the four friends, aided by Grimaud, pushed with the barrels of their muskets an enormous side of the wall,

which bent over as if swayed by the wind, and giving way from its base, fell with a horrible crash into the ditch.

Then a fearful cry was heard, a cloud of dust mounted toward the sky, and all was over!
“Can we have destroyed them all, from the first to the last?” said Athos.
“Faith, it seems so,” said D’Artagnan.
“No,” cried Porthos; “there go three or four, limping away.”
In fact, three or four of these unfortunate men, covered with dirt and blood, were escaping along the hollow way,

and were making for the city. These were all that were left of the little troop.
Athos looked at his watch.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “we have been here an hour, and our wager is won; but we will be fair players. Besides, D

’Artagnan has not told us his idea yet.”
And the musketeer, with his usual coolness, went and sat down again before the remains of the breakfast.
“My idea?” said D’Artagnan.
“Yes; you said you had an idea,” said Athos.
“Oh, I remember now,” said D’Artagnan. “Well, I will go to England again; I will go and find Buckingham.”
“You shall not do that, D’Artagnan,” said Athos coolly.“
And why not? Have I not been there once?”
“Yes; but at that period we were not at war. At that period Buckingham was an ally, and not an enemy. What you

now contemplate doing would amount to treason.”
D’Artagnan perceived the force of this reasoning, and was silent.
“Let us have your idea, Aramis,” said Athos, who entertained great deference for the young musketeer.
“We must inform the queen.”
“Ah, ’pon my word, yes,” said Porthos and D’Artagnan at the same time. “I think we are getting at the proper

means.”
“Inform the queen!” said Athos. “And how? Have we any friends at court? Can we send any one to Paris without

its being known in the camp? It is a hundred and forty leagues from here to Paris; before our letter reached

Angers we should be in a dungeon.”
“As to sending a letter safely to her Majesty,” said Aramis, “I will take that on myself. I know a clever

person at Tours—”
Aramis stopped on seeing Athos smile.
“Well, do you not adopt this means, Athos?” asked D’Artagnan.
“I do not reject it altogether,” said Athos, “but I wish to remind Aramis that he cannot quit the camp, and

that no one but one of us can be trusted; that two hours after the messenger has set out, all the capuchins, all

the alguazils, all the black caps of the cardinal, will know your letter by heart, and you and your clever person

will be arrested. Allow me to give Grimaud some indispensable orders.”
Athos made a sign for his lackey to draw near.
“Grimaud,” said Athos, pointing to the bodies which lay in the bastion, “take those gentlemen, set them up

against the wall, put their hats on their heads, and their guns in their hands.”
“Oh, great man!” cried D’Artagnan, “I understand now.”
“This milady—this woman—this creature—this demon has a brother-in-law, as I think you have told me, D’

Artagnan?”
“Yes, I know him very well; and I also believe that he has not a very warm affection for his sister-in-law.”
“There is no harm in that; if he detested her, it would be all the better,” replied Athos.
“In that case, we are as well off as we could wish.”
“What is her brother-in-law’s name?”
“Lord Winter.”
“Where is he now?”
“He returned to London at the first rumour of war.”

“Well, he’s just the man we want,” said Athos; “we must warn him. We will send him word that his sister-in-law

is on the point of assassinating some one, and we will beg of him not to lose sight of her. There is in London, I

hope, some establishment like that of the Magdalens, or of the Repentant Women. He will place his sister in one of

these, and we are in peace.”
“But I think it would be still better,” said Aramis, “to inform the queen and Lord Winter at the same time.”
“Yes; but who is to carry the letter to Tours, and who the letter to London?”
“I answer for Bazin,” said Aramis.
“And I for Planchet,” said D’Artagnan.
“That is so,” said Porthos; “if we cannot leave the camp, our lackeys may.”
“To be sure they may,” said Aramis; “and this very day we write the letters, we give them money, and they set

out.”
“We will give them money?” replied Athos. “Have you any money, then?”
The four friends looked at one another, and a cloud came over the brows which had been for an instant so cheerful.
“Quick!” cried D’Artagnan; “I see black points and red points moving yonder. It is a whole army!”
“’Pon my word,” said Athos; “yes, there they are. Do you see the sneaks coming without drums or trumpets?—Ah!

have you finished, Grimaud?”
Grimaud made a sign in the affirmative, and pointed to a dozen bodies which he had set up in the most picturesque

attitudes—some carrying arms, others seeming to aim, and the rest sword in hand.
“Bravo!” said Athos; “that does honour to your imagination.”
“Very good,” said Porthos. “I should like, however, to understand.”
“Let us get away first,” said D’Artagnan; “and you can understand afterwards.”
“Faith!” said Athos, “I have nothing more to say against a retreat. Our wager called for an hour: we have

stayed an hour and a half. Nothing can be said; let us be off, gentlemen, let us be off!”
Grimaud had already gone on with the basket and the dessert. The four friends followed.
An instant later a furious firing was heard.
“What’s that?” asked Porthos; “what are they firing at now? I hear no balls, and I see no one!”
“They are firing on our dead men,” replied Athos.
“But our dead men will not return their fire.”
“You are right. Then they will fancy it is an ambuscade, they will deliberate; and by the time they find out the

joke we shall be out of range. That’s why it is useless to get a pleurisy by going too fast.”
“Oh, I understand now,” said the astonished Porthos.
“That’s very lucky,” said Athos, shrugging his shoulders.
The French, seeing the four friends returning leisurely, uttered shouts of enthusiasm.
At length a fresh discharge was heard, and this time the balls came rattling among the stones around the four

friends, and whistling sharply in their ears. The Rochellais had just taken possession of the bastion.
“What bunglers!” said Athos. “How many have we killed of them—a dozen?”
“Or fifteen.”
“How many did we crush under the wall?”
“Eight or ten.”
“And in exchange for all that, not a scratch! Ah! but what is the matter with your hand, D’Artagnan? It seems to

me it is bleeding.”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” said D’Artagnan.
“A spent ball?”
“Not even that.”
“What is it, then?”
We have said that Athos loved D’Artagnan as though he was his son, and this sombre and inflexible character

sometimes felt a parent’s anxiety for the young man.
“Only grazed a little,” replied D’Artagnan. “My fingers were caught between the stone of the wall and the

stone of my ring, and the skin was broken.”
“That comes of wearing diamonds, my master,” said Athos disdainfully.
“Ah, to be sure,” cried Porthos; “there is really a diamond. Why the devil, then, do we plague ourselves about

money when there is a diamond?”
“Well, then,” said D’Artagnan gaily, “let us sell the diamond, and say no more about it.”
The fusillade was still going on; but the friends were out of range, and the Rochellais only fired to soothe their

consciences.
“Faith! it was time that idea came into Porthos’s head. Here we are in camp; therefore, gentlemen, not a word

more of this affair. We are observed; they are coming to meet us; we shall be borne in in triumph.”

In fact, as we have said, the whole camp was in commotion. More than two thousand persons had been present, as at

a play, at this fortunate escapade of the four friends—an escapade of the real motive of which no one had a

suspicion. Nothing was heard but cries of “Hurrah for the musketeers! Hurrah for the guards!” M. de Busigny was

the first to come and shake Athos by the hand, and acknowledge that the wager was lost. The dragoon and the Swiss

followed him, and all their comrades followed the dragoon and the Swiss. There was no end to the congratulations,

pressures of the hand, and embraces; there was inextinguishable laughter at the Rochellais. The tumult at length

became so great that the cardinal fancied there was a riot, and sent La Houdinière, his captain of the guards, to

find out what was going on.
The affair was described to the messenger with all the effervescence of enthusiasm.
“Well?” asked the cardinal, on seeing La Houdinière return.
“Well, monseigneur,” replied the latter, “three musketeers and a guardsman laid a wager with M. de Busigny that

they would go and breakfast in the Bastion St. Gervais, and while breakfasting they held it for two hours against

the enemy, and have killed I don’t know how many Rochellais.”
“Did you inquire the names of the three musketeers?”
“Yes, monseigneur.”
“What are their names?”
“MM. Athos, Porthos, and Aramis.”
“Always my three brave fellows!” murmured the cardinal. “And the guard?”
“M. d’Artagnan.”
“Still my young scapegrace. Positively, these four men must be mine.”
That same evening the cardinal spoke to M. de Trèville of the morning’s exploit, which was the talk of the whole

camp. M. de Tréville, who had received the account of the adventure from the very mouths of the heroes of it,

related it in all its details to his Eminence, not forgetting the episode of the napkin.
“Very well, Monsieur de Tréville,” said the cardinal; “pray let me have that napkin. I will have three fleurs-

de-lis embroidered on it in gold, and will give it to your company as a standard.”
“Monseigneur,” said M. de Tréville, “that will hardly be doing justice to the guards. M. d’Artagnan is not

mine; he serves under M. des Essarts.”
“Well, then, take him,” said the cardinal; “when four men are so much attached to one another, it is only fair

that they should serve in the same company.”
That same evening M. de Tréville announced this good news to the three musketeers and D’Artagnan, inviting all

four to breakfast with him next morning.
D’Artagnan was beside himself with joy. We know that the dream of his life had been to become a musketeer.
The three friends were likewise greatly delighted.
That evening D’Artagnan went to present his compliments to M. des Essarts, and to inform him of his promotion.
M. des Essarts, who esteemed D’Artagnan, offered to aid him in any way, as this change of corps would entail

expenses for outfit.
D’Artagnan respectfully declined, but thinking the opportunity a good one, he begged him to have the diamond he

put into his hand valued, as he wished to turn it into money.
By eight o’clock next morning M. des Essarts’s valet came to D’Artagnan’s lodging, and gave him a purse

containing seven thousand livres.
This was the price of the queen’s diamond.

Chapter 43 - A Family Affair
Athos had invented the phrase, family affair. A family affair was not subject to the cardinal’s investigation; a

family affair concerned no one; people might employ themselves in a family affair before all the world.
Thus Athos had discovered the words, family affair.
Aramis had discovered the idea, the lackeys.
Porthos had discovered the means, the diamond.
D’Artagnan alone had discovered nothing—he, ordinarily, the most inventive of the four; but it must also be said

that the mere mention of milady paralysed him.
Oh no! we were mistaken; he had discovered a purchaser for his diamond.
The breakfast at M. de Tréville’s was delightfully gay. D’Artagnan was already in his uniform, for as he was

nearly of the same size as Aramis, and as Aramis had bought two of everything, he furnished his friend with a

complete outfit.
D’Artagnan would have been at the height of his wishes if he had not constantly seen milady, like a dark cloud,

on the horizon.
After breakfast it was agreed that they should meet again in the evening at Athos’s lodging, and would there end

the affair.
D’Artagnan passed the day in exhibiting his musketeer’s uniform in every street of the camp.
In the evening, at the appointed hour, the four friends met. There remained only three things to be decided on—

what they should write to milady’s brother; what they should write to the clever person at Tours; and which

should be the lackeys to carry the letters.
“Draw up this note for us, Aramis,” said D’Artagnan. “But be concise.”
“I ask nothing better,” said Aramis, with that ingenuous self-confidence which every poet has; “but let me know

what I am about. I have heard, in one way and another, that Lord Winter’s sister-in-law was vile. It was even

proved to me when I overheard her conversation with the cardinal.”
“Worse than vile, ye gods!” said Athos.
“But,” continued Aramis, “the details escape me.”
D’Artagnan told him all he needed to know about milady.
Aramis accordingly took the pen, reflected for a few moments, wrote eight or ten lines in a charming little

feminine hand, and then, in a soft, slow voice, as if each word had been scrupulously weighed, he read the

following:
“Milord.—The person who writes these lines had the honour of crossing swords with you in a little yard near the

Rue d’Enfer. As you have several times since been kind enough to call yourself that person’s friend, he thinks

it his duty to respond to your friendship by sending you important information. Twice you have almost been the

victim of a near relative whom you believe to be your heir, because you do not know that before she contracted a

marriage in England she was already married in France. But the third time, which is this, you may succumb. Your

relative left Rochelle for England during the night. Be on the watch for her arrival, for she has great and

terrible projects. If you absolutely insist on knowing what she is capable of, read her past history upon her left

shoulder.”
“Well, now, that’s wonderfully well done,” said Athos; “really, my dear Aramis, you have the pen of a

secretary of state. Lord Winter will now be upon his guard, if the letter should reach him; and even if it should

fall into the cardinal’s hands, we shall not be compromised. But as the lackey who goes may make us believe he

has been to London and may stop at Chatellerault, let us give him only half the sum with the letter, promising

that he shall have the other half in exchange for the reply. Have you the diamond?” continued Athos.
“I have what is still better: I have the value of it.”
And D’Artagnan threw the purse on the table. At the sound of the gold Aramis raised his eyes and Porthos started;

Athos remained unmoved.
“How much is there in that purse?”
“Seven thousand livres, in louis of twelve francs.”
“Seven thousand livres!” cried Porthos—“that wretched little diamond was worth seven thousand livres?”
“It seems so,” said Athos, “since here they are. I don’t suppose that our friend D’Artagnan has added any of

his own.”
“But, gentlemen, in all this,” said D’Artagnan, “we have no thought of the queen. Let us look a little after

her dear Buckingham’s health. That is the least we owe her.”
“You are right,” said Athos; “but that falls to Aramis.”
“Well,” replied the latter, “what must I do?”
“Oh, it’s simple enough,” replied Athos. “Write a second letter for that clever personage who lives at Tours.

”
Aramis resumed his pen, reflected a little more, and wrote the following lines, which he immediately submitted to

his friends’ approbation,
“My dear cousin.”
“Ah, ha!” said Athos; “this clever lady is your relative, then?”
“She’s my cousin-german.”
“Good—for your cousin, then!”

Aramis continued:
“My dear Cousin,—His Eminence the cardinal, whom God preserve for the happiness of France and the confusion of

the enemies of the kingdom, is on the point of finishing up with the heretic rebels of Rochelle; it is probable

that the aid of the English fleet will never even arrive in sight of the place. I will even venture to say that I

am certain the Duke of Buckingham will be prevented from starting for there by some great event. His Eminence is

the most illustrious politician of times past, of times present, and probably of times to come. He would

extinguish the sun, if the sun incommoded him. Give these happy tidings to your sister, my dear cousin. I have

dreamed that that cursed Englishman was dead. I cannot recollect whether it was by steel or by poison; only I am

sure of this: I have dreamed he was dead, and you know my dreams never deceive me. Be assured, then, of seeing me

soon return.”
“Capital,” cried Athos; “you are the king of poets, my dear Aramis. You speak like the Apocalypse, and you are

as true as the gospel. There is nothing now for you to do but to put the address on your letter.”
“That’s easily done,” said Aramis.
He folded the letter coquettishly, took it, and wrote,
“To Mademoiselle Michon, seamstress, Tours.”
The three friends looked at each other and laughed; they were caught.
“Now,” said Aramis, “you understand, gentlemen, that Bazin is the only person who can carry this letter to

Tours. My cousin knows no one but Bazin, and places confidence in no one else; any other person would fail.

Besides, Bazin is ambitious and learned; Bazin has read history, gentlemen. He knows that Sixtus V. became pope

after having tended pigs. Then, as he means to enter holy orders at the same time as myself, he does not despair

of becoming a pope in his turn, or at least a cardinal. You understand that a man who has such views will never

allow himself to be taken, or if taken, will undergo martyrdom rather than speak.”
“Well, well,” said D’Artagnan, “I grant you Bazin with all my heart, but let me have Planchet. Milady one day

had him turned out of doors, with a sound caning. Now Planchet has an excellent memory, and I will be bound that

if he can see possible means of vengeance, he will let himself be beaten to death rather than fail. If your

affairs of Tours are your affairs, Aramis, those of London are mine. I beg, then, that Planchet may be chosen,

especially as he has already been to London with me, and knows how to say very correctly, London, sir, if you

please, and, My master, Lord d’Artagnan. With that, you may be satisfied, he can make his way, both going and

returning.”
“In that case,” said Athos, “Planchet must receive seven hundred livres for going, and seven hundred livres for

coming back; and Bazin, three hundred livres for going, and three hundred livres for coming back. That will reduce

the sum to five thousand livres. We will each take a thousand livres, to be employed as seems good to each, and we

will leave a fund of a thousand livres, in the guardianship of the abbé here, for extraordinary occasions or

common necessities. Does that suit you?”
“My dear Athos,” said Aramis, “you speak like Nestor.”
Planchet was sent for, and instructions were given him. He had already been notified by D’Artagnan, who had shown

him first the glory, next the money, and then the danger.
“I will carry the letter in the lining of my coat,” said Planchet, “and if I am taken I will swallow it.”
“Well, but then you will not be able to fulfil your commission,” said D’Artagnan.
“You will give me a copy of it this evening, and I will know it by heart before morning.”
D’Artagnan looked at his friends, as if to say, “Well, what did I promise you?”
“Now,” continued he, addressing Planchet, “you have eight days to get to Lord Winter, you have eight days to

return in—in all sixteen days; if on the sixteenth day after your departure, at eight o’clock in the evening,

you are not here, no money, even if it be but five minutes past eight.”
“Ah, sir!”said Planchet, “I will succeed, or I will consent to be quartered; and if they quarter me, be assured

that not a morsel of me will speak.”
In the morning, as he was mounting his horse, D’Artagnan, who felt at the bottom of his heart a partiality for

the duke, took Planchet aside.
“Listen,” said he to him. “When you have given the letter to Lord Winter, and he has read it, you will further

say to him, ‘Watch over his Grace, Lord Buckingham, for there is a plot to assassinate him.’ But, Planchet, you

see this is so serious and important that I have not informed my friends that I would entrust this secret to you;

and for a captain’s commission I would not write it.”
“Be at rest, sir,” said Planchet; “you shall see whether confidence can be placed in me or not.”
And mounted on an excellent horse, which he was to leave at the end of twenty leagues to take the post, Planchet

set off at a gallop.
Bazin set out the next day for Tours, and was allowed a week in which to perform his commission.
On the morning of the eighth day Bazin, fresh as ever and smiling as usual, entered the tavern of the Infidel as

the four friends were sitting down to breakfast, saying, as had been agreed upon,
“Monsieur Aramis, here is your cousin’s answer.”Aramis took the letter, which was in a large, coarse hand, and

ill-spelt.

“Good gracious!” cried he, laughing, “I really despair of my poor Michon; she will never write like M. de

Voiture.”
Aramis read the letter, and passed it to Athos.
“See what she writes to me, Athos,” said he.
Athos cast a glance over the epistle, and, to dissipate all the suspicions that might have been created, read

aloud,
“My Cousin,—My sister and I are very skilful in interpreting dreams, and even entertain great fear of them; but

of yours it may be said, I hope, every dream is an illusion. Farewell! Take care of yourself, and act so that we

may, from time to time, hear you spoken of.
“Marie Michon.”
On the sixteenth day signs of anxiety were so manifest in D’Artagnan and his three friends that they could not

remain quiet in one place, and they wandered about like ghosts on the road by which Planchet was expected.
The day, however, passed away, and the evening come on slower than ever, but it came. The taprooms were filled

with drinkers. Athos, who had pocketed his share of the diamond, seldom quitted the Infidel. He had found in M. de

Busigny—who, by the way, had given them a magnificent dinner—a partner worthy of his company. They were playing

together as usual when seven o’clock struck; the patrols were heard passing to double the posts. At half-past

seven tattoo was sounded.
“We are lost,” said D’Artagnan in Athos’s ear.
“You mean we have lost,” said Athos quietly, drawing four pistoles from his pocket and flinging them on the

table. “Come, gentlemen,” said he, “they are beating the tattoo; to bed, to bed!”
And Athos went out of the Infidel, followed by D’Artagnan. Aramis came behind, giving his arm to Porthos. Aramis

mumbled verses, and Porthos from time to time pulled a hair or two from his moustache, as a sign of despair.
But behold! suddenly a shadow appears in the darkness, the outline of which is familiar to D’Artagnan, and a

well-known voice says,
“Sir, I have brought your cloak, for it is chilly this evening.”
“Planchet!” cried D’Artagnan intoxicated with joy.
“Planchet!” repeated Aramis and Porthos.
“Well, certainly Planchet,” said Athos; “what is there astonishing in that? He promised to be back by eight o’

clock, and eight is just now striking. Bravo, Planchet! you are a lad of your word, and if ever you leave your

master I promise you a place in my service.”
“Oh no, never!” said Planchet. “I will never leave M. d’Artagnan.”At the same time D’Artagnan felt Planchet

slipping a note into his hand.
“I have a note,” said he to Athos and his friends.
“Very well,” said Athos; “let us go home and we will read it.”
The note burned in D’Artagnan’s hand. He wished to hasten; but Athos took his arm and passed it under his own,

and the young man was obliged to regulate his pace by his friend’s.
At length they reached the tent, lit a lamp, and whilst Planchet stood at the entrance, so that the four friends

might not be surprised, D’Artagnan with a trembling hand broke the seal and opened the letter so anxiously

expected.
It contained half a line in a thoroughly British hand, and of thoroughly Spartan brevity:
“Thank you. Be easy.”
Athos took the letter from D’Artagnan’s hands, drew near to the lamp, set fire to it, and did not let it go till

it was reduced to ashes.
Then calling Planchet,
“Now, my lad,” said he, “you may claim your seven hundred livres; but you did not run much risk with such a

note as that.”
“Twas not from lack of trying every means to compass it,” said Planchet.
“Well,” cried D’Artagnan, “tell us about it.”
“Ah, sir, it’s a very long story.”
“You are right, Planchet,” said Athos; “besides, tattoo has been sounded, and we should be observed if we kept

a light burning longer than the others.”
“So be it,” said D’Artagnan. “Let us go to bed. Planchet, sleep soundly.”
“Faith, sir, it will be the first time I have done so these sixteen days!”
“Or I either!” said D’Artagnan.
“Or I either!” said Porthos.
“Or I either!” said Aramis.
“Well, if I must tell you the truth—or I either!” said Athos.

Chapter 44 - Fatality
Meantime milady, drunk with rage, roaring on the deck of the vessel like a lioness embarked, had been tempted to

leap into the sea in order to regain the coast, for she could not get rid of the idea that she had been insulted

by D’Artagnan and threatened by Athos, and after all was leaving France without being revenged on either.
But milady continued her voyage, and on the very day that Planchet embarked at Portsmouth for France, his Eminence

’s messenger entered the port in triumph.
All the city was stirred by an extraordinary commotion: four large ships, recently built, had just been launched.

Standing on the jetty, his clothes bedizened with gold, glittering as usual with diamonds and precious stones, his

hat ornamented with a white feather which drooped on his shoulder, Buckingham was seen, surrounded by a staff

almost as brilliant as himself.
They entered the roadstead; but as they were making ready to cast anchor, a little cutter, formidably armed and

purporting to be a coastguard, approached the merchant vessel, and dropped into the sea its gig, which directed

its course to the ladder. The gig contained an officer, a boatswain, and eight oarsmen. The officer alone got on

board, where he was received with all the deference inspired by a uniform.
The officer conversed a few moments with the captain, had him read several papers of which he was the bearer; and

on the merchant-captain’s order, all on board, both passengers and crew, were called on deck.
After this kind of summons had been given, the officer inquired aloud about the place of the brig’s departure, of

her route, of her landings; and all these questions the captain answered without hesitation and without

difficulty.
Then the officer began to pass in review all the individuals, one after the other; and stopping in front of

milady, surveyed her very closely, but without addressing a single word to her. He then went up to the captain,

again said a few words to him, and, as if from that moment the vessel was under his command, he ordered a man?uvre

which the crew immediately executed.
Then the vessel resumed her course, still escorted by the little cutter, which sailed side by side with it,

threatening her side with the mouths of its six cannon, while the boat followed in the wake of the ship.
While the officer made his scrutiny of milady, milady, as may well be imagined, had been sharply eyeing him. But

great as was the power of this woman, with eyes of flame, in reading the hearts of those whose secrets she wished

to divine, she met this time with a face so impenetrable that no discovery followed her investigation. The officer

who had stopped before her and silently studied her with so much care might have been twenty-five or twenty-six

years old. He had a pale complexion, with clear blue eyes, rather deeply set; his mouth, fine and well cut,

remained motionless in its correct lines; his chin, strongly set, denoted that strength of will which, in the

ordinary Britannic type, usually stands only for obstinacy; a brow a little receding, as is proper for poets,

enthusiasts, and soldiers, was scarcely shaded by short thin hair, which, like the beard covering the lower part

of his face. was of a beautiful deep-chestnut colour.
When they entered the port it was already nightfall. The fog made the darkness still denser, and formed round the

beacons and the lantern of the jetty a circle like that which surrounds the moon when the weather threatens to

become rainy. The air they breathed was gloomy, damp, and cold.
Milady, courageous as she was, shivered in spite of herself.
The officer desired to have milady’s luggage pointed out to him, ordered it to be placed in the boat; and when

this operation was completed, he offered her his hand and invited her to descend.
Milady looked at the man and hesitated.
“Who are you, sir,” she asked, “that you are so kind as to busy yourself so particularly on my account?”
“You must see, madame, by my uniform, that I am an officer in the English navy,” replied the young man.
“But is it the custom for officers in the English navy to give their services to their female compatriots who

land at a port of Great Britain, and to carry their gallantry so far as to bring them ashore?”
“Yes, madame, it is our custom, not from gallantry, but prudence, in time of war, to bring foreigners to certain

hotels, in order that they may be under the eye of the government until full information can be obtained about

them.”
These words were spoken with the most exact politeness and the most perfect calmness. Nevertheless, they had not

the power of convincing milady.
“But I am not a foreigner, sir,” said she, with an accent as pure as ever was heard between Portsmouth and

Manchester; “my name is Lady Clarick, and this measure—”
“This measure is general, madame, and you would not succeed in escaping from it.”
“I will follow you, then, sir.”
And accepting the officer’s hand, she began to climb down the ladder, at the foot of which the gig was awaiting

her. The officer followed her. A large cloak was spread in the stern. The officer had her sit down on the cloak,

and placed himself beside her.
“Give way!” said he to the sailors.
The eight oars fell at once into the sea, making but a single sound, giving a single stroke, and the gig seemed to

fly over the surface of the water.
At the end of five minutes they reached shore.
The officer sprang on the quay and offered milady his hand.
A carriage was in waiting.
“Is this carriage for us?” asked milady.
“Yes, madame,” replied the officer.

“So the hotel is at some distance?”
“At the other end of the town.”
“Very well,” said milady; and she got resolutely into the carriage.
The officer saw that the baggage was fastened carefully behind the carriage; and when this operation was over, he

took his place beside milady, and shut the door.
Instantly, without any order being given, or place of destination indicated, the coachman set off at a gallop, and

plunged into the streets of the town.
Such a strange reception naturally gave milady ample matter for reflection; so, seeing that the young officer did

not seem at all disposed to talk, she reclined in her corner of the carriage, and passed in review all the

suppositions which presented themselves, one after the other, to her mind.
At length, after nearly an hour’s ride, the carriage stopped before an iron gate, which shut in a sunken avenue

leading to a castle severe in form, massive, and isolated. Then, as the wheels rolled over a fine gravel, milady

could hear a dull roar, which she recognized as the noise of the sea dashing against a rock-bound coast.
The carriage passed under two arched gateways, and at length stopped in a dark, square court. Almost immediately

the carriage door was opened, the young man sprang lightly to the ground, and gave milady his hand. She leaned on

it, and in her turn alighted quite calmly.
“Still, the fact is I am a prisoner,” said milady, looking around her, and then fixing her eyes on the young

officer with a most gracious smile; “but I feel assured it will not be for long,” added she. “My own conscience

and your politeness, sir, are the guarantees of that.”
Flattering as this compliment was, the officer made no reply, but drawing from his belt a little silver whistle,

such as boatswains use in ships of war, he whistled three times, with three different modulations. Several men

then appeared, unharnessed the smoking horses, and put the carriage into a coach-house.
The officer, always with the same calm politeness, invited his prisoner to enter the house. She, always with the

same smiling countenance, took his arm, and passed with him under a low arched door, which, by a vaulted passage,

lighted only at the farther end, led to a stone staircase turning round a stone column. Then they paused before a

massive door, which, after the young officer had inserted a key into the lock, turned heavily on its hinges, and

disclosed the chamber destined for milady.
With a single glance the prisoner took in the apartment in its minutest details.
It was a chamber the furniture of which was at once suited to a prison or the dwelling of a free man; yet the bars

at the windows and the outside bolts on the door decided the question in favour of the prison. For an instant all

this creature’s strength of mind abandoned her. She sank into an armchair, with her arms folded, her head hanging

down, and expecting every instant to see a judge enter to question her.
But no one entered except two marines, who brought in her trunks and packages, deposited them in a corner of the

room, and retired without speaking.
The officer presided over all these details with the same calmness milady had always observed in him, never

uttering a word, and making himself obeyed by a gesture of his hand or a sound of his whistle.
One might have said that between this man and his inferiors spoken language did not exist, or had become useless.
At length milady could hold out no longer. She broke the silence.
“In the name of Heaven, sir,” cried she, “what is the meaning of all this? Put an end to my doubts. I have

courage enough for any danger I can foresee, for any misfortune I can comprehend. Where am I, and why am I here?

If I am free, why these bars and these doors? If I am a prisoner, what crime have I committed?”
“You are here in the apartment destined for you, madame. I received orders to go and take charge of you at sea,

and to conduct you to this castle. This order, I believe, I have accomplished with all a soldier’s strictness,

but also with all the courtesy of a gentleman. Here ends, at least for the present, the duty I had to fulfil

toward you; the rest concerns another person.”
“And who is this other person?” asked milady. “Can you not tell me his name?”
At that moment a great jingling of spurs was heard on the stairs. People talking together went by, the sounds of

voices died away, and the noise made by a single footstep approached the door.
“Here he is, madame,” said the officer, leaving the entrance clear, and drawing himself up in an attitude of

respect and submission.
At the same time the door opened; a man appeared on the threshold.
He had no hat on, wore a sword at his side, and was crushing a handkerchief in his hand.
Milady thought she recognized this shadow in the gloom; she leaned with one hand on the arm of the chair, and

protruded her head as if to meet a certainty.
Then the stranger advanced slowly, and as he advanced into the circle of light projected by the lamp, milady

involuntarily drew back.
Then, when she had no longer any doubt—
“What! my brother!” cried she, at the culmination of her amazement; “is it you?”
“Yes, fair lady,” replied Lord Winter, making a bow, half courteous, half ironical; “it is I, myself.”
“Then this castle?”
“Is mine.”
“This room?”
“Is yours.”
“I am your prisoner, then?”
“Nearly so.”
“But this is a frightful abuse of power!”
“No high-sounding words. Let us sit down and talk calmly, as brother and sister ought to do.”
Then turning toward the door, and seeing that the young officer was waiting for his last orders,
“It is all right,” said he; “I thank you. Now leave us alone, Mr. Felton.”

Chapter 45 - Brother and Sister
While Lord Winter was shutting the door, closing a shutter, and drawing a chair near to his sister-in-law’s

armchair, milady was thoughtfully plunging her glance into the depths of possibility, and discovered the whole

plot, not even a glimpse of which she could get so long as she was ignorant into whose hands she had fallen. She

knew her brother-in-law was a worthy gentleman, a bold huntsman, an intrepid player, enterprising with women, but

with less than average skill in intrigues. How could he have discovered her arrival and caused her to be seized?

Why did he detain her?
Athos had indeed said some words which proved that the conversation she had had with the cardinal had fallen into

others’ ears; but she could not suppose that he had dug a counter-mine so promptly and so boldly. She feared,

rather, that her preceding operations in England had been discovered. Buckingham might have guessed that it was

she who had cut off the two studs, and avenged himself for that little treachery. But Buckingham was incapable of

going to any excess against a woman, particularly if that woman was supposed to have acted from a feeling of

jealousy.
This supposition appeared to her the most reasonable: it seemed to her that they wanted to revenge the past, and

not to anticipate the future. At all events, she congratulated herself on having fallen into the hands of her

brother-in-law, with whom she reckoned she could come off easily, rather than into the hands of an avowed and

intelligent enemy.
“Yes, let us talk, brother,’ said she, with a kind of springhtliness, now that she had decided to get from the

conversation, in spite of all dissimulation Lord Winter could bring to it, the information of which she stood in

need for regulating her future conduct.
“So you decided to come to England again,” said Lord Winter, “in spite of the resolutions you so often

manifested in Paris never to set your foot again on British soil?”
Milady replied to this question by another question.
“Before everything,” said she, “tell me how you had me watched so closely as to be aware in advance not only of

my arrival, but, still more, of the day, the hour, and the port at which I should arrive?”
Lord Winter adopted the same tactics as milady, thinking that as his sister-in-law employed them they must be

good.
“But tell me, my dear sister,” replied he—“what have you come to do in England?”
“Why, to see you,” replied milady, without knowing how much she aggravated by this reply the suspicions which D

’Artagnan’s letter had given birth to in her brother-in-law’s mind, and only desiring to gain her auditor’s

good-will by a falsehood.
“Ah, to see me?” said Lord Winter craftily.
“Yes.”
“Well, I reply that your every wish should be fulfilled, and that we should see each other every day.”
“Am I, then, to remain here eternally?” demanded milady in some terror.
“Yes, at present,” continued Lord Winter, “you will remain in this castle. The walls of it are thick, the doors

strong, and the bars solid. Moreover, your window opens immediately over the sea. The men of my crew, who are

devoted to me for life and death, mount guard around this apartment, and watch all the passages leading to the

castle yard. The officer who commands alone here in my absence you have seen, and therefore already know him. As

you must have observed, he knows how to obey orders, for I am sure you did not come from Portsmouth here without

trying to make him speak. What do you say to that? Could a statue of marble have been more impassive and more

mute? You have already tried the power of your seductions on many men, and, unfortunately, you have always

succeeded. Try them on him. By God! if you succeed with him, I pronounce you the demon himself.”
He went to the door and opened it hastily.
“And now, madame, try to make your peace with God, for you are judged by men!”
Milady let her head sink, as if she felt herself crushed by this sentence. Lord Winter went out and shut the door.
An instant after, the heavy step of a marine was heard in the corridor, serving on sentinel’s duty, with his axe

in his girdle and his musket on his shoulder.
Milady remained for some minutes in the same position, for she thought they might perhaps be watching her through

the keyhole. Then she slowly raised her head, and assuming a formidable expression of menace and defiance, ran to

the door to listen, looked out of her window, and returning to bury herself again in her large armchair, she

reflected.

Chapter 46 - Officer
Meanwhile the cardinal was anxiously looking for news from England; but no news arrived, except what was annoying

and threatening.
One day when the cardinal, oppressed by mortal weariness of mind, hopeless of the negotiations with the city,

without news from England, had gone out with no other aim than to ride, accompanied only by Cahusac and La Houdini

ère, skirting the beach and mingling the immensity of his dreams with the immensity of the ocean, he came ambling

along to a hill, from the top of which he perceived, behind a hedge, reclining on the sand, in the sun so rare at

this period of the year, seven men surrounded by empty bottles. Four of these men were our musketeers, preparing

to listen to a letter one of them had just received. This letter was so important that it caused them to abandon

their cards and their dice on a drumhead.
The other three were occupied in uncorking an enormous demijohn of Collioure wine; they were the gentlemen’s

lackeys.
The cardinal was, as we have said, in very low spirits; and when he was in that state of mind, nothing increased

his depression so much as gaiety in others. Besides, he had another strange fancy, which was always to believe

that the causes of his sadness created the gaiety of others. Making a sign to La Houdinière and Cahusac to stop,

he alighted from his horse, and went toward these suspected merry-makers, hoping, by means of the sand which

deadened the sound of his steps, and of the hedge which concealed his approach, to catch some words of a

conversation which seemed so interesting. Ten paces from the hedge he recognized the Gascon prattle, and as he had

already perceived that these men were musketeers, he had no doubt that the three others were those called “the

inseparables”—that is to say, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis.
As may well be supposed, his desire to hear the conversation was increased by his discovery. His eyes took on a

strange expression, and with the step of a cat he advanced toward the hedge. But he had not been able as yet to

make out anything more than vague syllables without any positive sense, when a short, sonorous cry made him start,

and attracted the attention of the musketeers.
“Officer!” cried Grimaud.
“I believe you are speaking, you rascal!” said Athos, rising on his elbow, and fascinating Grimaud with his

flashing eyes.
Grimaud therefore said not a word more, but contented himself with pointing his index finger at the hedge,

signifying by this gesture the presence of the cardinal and his escort.
With a single bound the musketeers were on their feet, and saluted respectfully.
The cardinal seemed furious.
“It seems that the musketeers set sentinels for themselves,” said he. “Are the English expected by land, or do

the musketeers consider themselves officers of rank?”
“Monseigneur,” replied Athos, for amidst the general alarm he alone had preserved that calmness and sang froid

which never forsook him —“monseigneur, the musketeers, when they are not on duty, or when their duty is over,

drink and play at dice, and they are officers of very high rank to their lackeys.”
“Lackeys!” grumbled the cardinal. “Lackeys who are ordered to warn their masters when any one passes are not

lackeys; they are sentinels.”
“Your Eminence may perceive that if we had not taken this precaution, we should have been in danger of letting

you pass without presenting you our respects, or offering you our thanks for the favour you have done us in

uniting us.—D’Artagnan,” continued Athos, “you were only just now so anxious for such an opportunity for

expressing your thanks to monseigneur. Here it is; avail yourself of it.”
These words were pronounced with that perfect imperturbability which distinguished Athos in the hour of danger,

and with that excessive politeness which made of him at certain moments a king more majestic than kings by birth.
D’Artagnan came forward and stammered out a few words of thanks, which soon expired under the cardinal’s gloomy

looks.
“No, matter, gentlemen,” continued the cardinal, without appearing to be in the least diverted from his first

intention by the incident which Athos had raised—“no matter, gentlemen. I do not like simple soldiers, because

they have the advantage of serving in a privileged corps, thus to play the great lords; and discipline is the same

for them as for everybody else.”
Athos allowed the cardinal to finish his sentence completely, and bowing in sign of assent, he replied in his

turn.
“Discipline, monseigneur, has in no way, I hope, been forgotten by us. We are not on duty, and we believe that,

as we are not on duty, we are at liberty to dispose of our time as we please. If we are so fortunate as to have

some particular command from your Eminence, we are ready to obey you. Your Eminence may perceive,” continued

Athos, frowning, for such an investigation began to annoy him, “that we have come out with our arms, so as to be

ready for the least alarm.”
And he showed the cardinal the four muskets stacked near the drum, on which were the cards and dice.
“We beg your Eminence to believe,” added D’Artagnan, “that we should have come to meet you, if we could have

supposed it was you coming toward us with so few attendants.”

“Do you know what you look like, always together, as you are, armed, and sentinelled by your lackeys?” said the

cardinal. “You look like four conspirators.”
“Oh, so far, monseigneur, it’s true,” said Athos; “we do conspire, as your Eminence might have seen the other

day, only we conspire against the Rochellais.”
“Eh, politicians!” replied the cardinal, frowning in his turn; “the secret of many things unknown might perhaps

be found in your brains, if we could read in them as you were reading that letter which you concealed when you saw

me coming.”
The colour mounted to Athos’s face, and he made a step toward his Eminence.
“One would think that you really suspected us, monseigneur, and that we are undergoing a cross-examination. If it

be so, we trust your Eminence will deign to explain yourself, and we shall then at least be acquainted with our

real position.”
“And if it were an examination,” replied the cardinal, “others beside you have undergone such, Monsieur Athos,

and have replied to them.”
“So, monseigneur, I have told your Eminence that you have but to question us, and we are ready to reply.”
“What was that letter you were about to read, Monsieur Aramis, and which you concealed?”
“A woman’s letter, monseigneur.”
“Oh, I understand. We must be discreet with such letters. But nevertheless we may show them to a confessor, and

you know I have taken orders.”
“Monseigneur,” said Athos, with a calmness all the more terrible that he risked his life when he made this

reply, “the letter is a woman’s, but it is neither signed Marion de Lorme nor Madame d’Arguillon.”
The cardinal became as pale as death. A flash of fire darted from his eyes. He turned round as if to give an order

to Cahusac and Houdinière. Athos saw the movement; he took a step toward the muskets, on which the other three

friends had fixed their eyes like men ill-disposed to allow themselves to be arrested. The cardinal’s party

consisted of only three; the musketeers, lackeys included, numbered seven. He judged that the match would be so

much the less equal if Athos and his companions were really plotting; and by one of those quick changes which he

always had at command, all his anger faded away into a smile.
“Come, come!” said he, “you are brave young men, proud in daylight, faithful in darkness; no fault can be found

with you for watching over yourselves when you watch so carefully over others. Gentlemen, I have not forgotten the

night in which you served me as an escort to the Red Dovecot. If there were any danger to be apprehended on the

road I am going, I should request you to accompany me; but as there is none, remain where you are, finish your

bottles, your game, and your letter. Farewell, gentlemen!”
And remounting his horse, which Cahusac had led to him, he saluted them with his hand and rode away.
The four young men, standing motionless, followed him with their eyes without speaking a single word until he had

disappeared.
Then they looked at one another.
All showed their consternation and terror in their faces; for notwithstanding his Eminence’s friendly farewell,

they plainly perceived that the cardinal went away with rage in his heart.
Athos alone smiled with a self-possessed, disdainful smile.
When the cardinal was out of hearing and sight,
“That Grimaud kept but tardy watch!” cried Porthos, anxious to visit his ill-humour on some one.
Grimaud was about to excuse himself. Athos lifted his finger, and Grimaud was silent.
“Would you have given up the letter, Aramis?” said D’Artagnan.
“I,” said Aramis, in his most flute-like tone—“I had made up my mind. If he had insisted on the letter being

given up to him, I would have presented the letter to him with one hand, and with the other I would have run my

sword through his body.”
“I expected as much,” said Athos; “and that was why I interfered between you and him. Truly, this man is very

unwise to talk in this way to other men; one would say he had never had to do with any but women and children.”
“My dear Athos,” said D’Artagnan, “I admire you very much, but, nevertheless, we were in the wrong, after all.

”

“How in the wrong?” exclaimed Athos. “Whose, then, is the air we breath? Whose is the ocean on which we look?

Whose is the sand on which we were reclining? Whose is that letter of your mistress’s? The cardinal’s? ’Pon my

honour, this man fancies the world belongs to him. There you stood, stammering, stupefied, confounded. One might

have supposed that the Bastille appeared before you, and that the gigantic Medusa was converting you into stone.

Come, now, is to be in love conspiring? You are in love with a woman whom the cardinal has caused to be shut up,

and you wish to get her out of the cardinal’s hands. That’s a game you are playing with his Eminence; this

letter is your hand. Why should you show your hand to your adversary? That is never done. If he finds it out, well

and good. We are finding out his, aren’t we?”
“In truth, what you say has sense in it, Athos,” said D’Artagnan.
“In that case let there be no more question of what has just occurred, and let Aramis resume the letter from his

cousin where the cardinal interrupted him.”
Aramis took the letter from his pocket, the three friends surrounded him, and the three lackeys grouped themselves

again near the demijohn.
“You had only read a line or two,” said D’Artagnan, “so begin the letter over again.”
“Willingly,” said Aramis.
My dear Cousin,—I think I shall decide to set out for Béthune, where my sister has placed our little servant in

the convent of the Carmelites. This poor child is resigned; she knows she cannot live elsewhere without risking

the salvation of her soul. However, if the affairs of our family are settled, as we hope they will be, I believe

she will run the risk of being damned, and will return to those whom she misses, particularly as she knows they

are always thinking of her. In the meanwhile, she is not altogether wretched; what she most desires is a letter

from her intended. I know that such commodities pass with difficulty through the gratings; but after all, as I

have proved to you, my dear cousin, I am not unskilled, and I will take charge of the commission. My sister thanks

you for your good and eternal remembrance. She underwent for a moment considerable anxiety; but she is now at

length a little reassured, having sent her secretary yonder, in order that nothing may happen unexpectedly.
“Farewell, my dear cousin. Let us hear from you as often as possible—that is to say, whenever you can send with

safety. I embrace you.
“Marie Michon.”
“Oh, what do I not owe you, Aramis?” cried D’Artagnan. “Dear Constance! I have at length, then, news of her.

She lives; she is in safety in a convent; she is at Béthune! Where do you suppose Béthune is, Athos?”
“Why, upon the frontiers of Artois and of Flanders. When the siege is once over we shall be able to make a tour

in that direction.”
“And that will not be long, it is to be hoped,” said Porthos; “for this morning they hung a spy who confessed

that the Rochellais had come to the leather of their shoes. Supposing that after having eaten the leather they eat

the soles, I cannot see what they have left, unless they eat one another.”
“Poor fools!” said Athos, emptying a glass of excellent Bordeaux wine, which, without having at that period the

reputation it now enjoys, no less merited it—“poor fools! As if the Catholic religion was not the most agreeable

of all religions! All the same,” resumed he, after having smacked his tongue against his palate, “they are brave

fellows. But what the devil are you about, Aramis?” continued Athos. “Why, are you squeezing that letter into

your pocket!”
“Yes,” said D’Artagnan, “Athos is right; it must be burnt. Who knows whether the cardinal has not a secret for

examining ashes?”
“He must have one,” said Athos.
“What are you going to do with the letter, then?” asked Porthos.
“Come here, Grimaud,” said Athos.
Grimaud got up and obeyed.
“As a punishment for having spoken without permission, my friend, you will please eat this piece of paper. Then,

to recompense you for the service you will have rendered us, you shall afterwards drink this glass of wine. Here

is the letter. First, chew vigorously.”
Grimaud smiled; and with his eyes fixed on the glass which Athos had just filled to the brim, he crushed the paper

and swallowed it.
“Bravo, Master Grimaud!” said Athos. “And now take this. Good! I excuse you from saying ‘Thank you.”’
Grimaud silently swallowed the glass of Bordeaux wine; but his eyes, raised toward heaven during the whole time

this delicious occupation lasted, spoke a language which, though mute, was none the less expressive.
“And now,” said Athos, “unless the cardinal should form the ingenious idea of ripping up Grimaud, I think we

may be almost free from anxiety.”
Meantime his Eminence was continuing his melancholy ride, murmuring between his moustaches what he so often said

before,
“These four men must positively be mine.”

Chapter 47 - Days of Captivity
Let us return to milady, whom our eyes, turned toward the coast of France, have lost from sight for an instant.
We shall find her in the despairing attitude in which we left her, plunged in an abyss of dismal reflections, a

dismal hell, at the gate of which she has almost left hope behind; for now for the first time she doubts, for the

first time she fears.
On two occasions her fortune has failed her, on two occasions she has found herself discovered and betrayed; and

on both these occasions she failed before the fatal genius sent doubtlessly by Heaven to combat her: D’Artagnan

has conquered her-her, the invincible power of evil.
He had deceived her love, humbled her pride, thwarted her ambition: and now he is ruining her fortune, depriving

her of liberty, and even threatening her life. Moreover, he has lifted the corner of her mask —that ?gis with

which she covered herself, and which rendered her so strong.
From Buckingham, whom she hates as she hates all she has loved, D’Artagnan averted the tempest with which

Richelieu threatened him in the person of the queen. D’Artagnan has passed himself off on her as De Wardes, for

whom she had conceived one of those invincible tigress-like fancies common to women of her character. D’Artagnan

knows the terrible secret which she has sworn no one should know without dying. Finally, just as she has obtained

from Richelieu a signed permit by means of which she is going to take vengeance on her enemy, this paper is torn

from her hands, and D’Artagnan holds her prisoner, and is about to send her to some filthy Botany Bay, some

infamous Tyburn of the Indian Ocean.
For all this, doubtless, D’Artagnan is responsible. From whom can come so many disgraces heaped on her head, if

not from him? He alone could have transmitted to Lord Winter all these frightful secrets, which he has discovered,

one after another, in consequence of Fate. He knows her brother-in-law; he must have written to him.
“Come, come! I must have been mad to be carried away so,” says she, plunging into the glass, which reflects back

the burning glance by which she seems to question herself. “No violence; violence is a proo