The Three Musketeers: Illustrated Young Readers' Edition

Chapter 1. The Three Presents of d’Artagnan the Elder

In 1625, a young man of eighteen arrived in the town of Meung. Too big for a youth, too small for a grown man, an experienced eye might have taken him for a farmer’s son had it not been for the long sword.

His steed was an elderly pony, yellow in hide, without a hair in its tail. Unfortunately, young d’Artagnan—for such was his name—could not conceal from himself the ridiculous appearance the steed gave him. He had sighed when accepting the pony from his father. The words that had accompanied the present were above all price.

Young d’Artagnan could not conceal from himself the ridiculous appearance the steed gave him.

My son, said the old Gascon gentleman, "sustain worthily your name of gentleman. Endure nothing from anyone except Monsieur le Cardinal and the king. It is by courage alone that a gentleman can make his way. You ought to be brave for two reasons: first that you are a Gascon, second that you are my son. I have taught you how to handle a sword; you have a wrist of steel. Fight on all occasions. Fight the more for duels being forbidden. I have nothing to give you, my son, but fifteen crowns, my horse, and the counsels you have just heard. Your mother will add a recipe for a balsam which cures all wounds that do not reach the heart. Live happily and long.

I propose an example to you: Monsieur de Treville, captain of the Musketeers. Go to him with this letter, and make him your model.

Upon which M. d’Artagnan the elder girded his own sword round his son.

With such advice, d’Artagnan took every smile for an insult—his fist was constantly doubled, his hand on the hilt of his sword; and yet the fist did not descend, nor did the sword issue from its scabbard. The sight of the pony excited smiles from passersby; but as against the side of this pony rattled a sword, they repressed their hilarity. D’Artagnan remained majestic till he came to Meung.

There, alighting from his horse at the gate of the Jolly Miller, d’Artagnan spied, through an open window, a gentleman talking with two persons. The gentleman was enumerating d’Artagnan’s horse’s qualities to his listeners, who every moment burst into fits of laughter. As a half-smile was sufficient to awaken the irascibility of the young man, the effect of this mirth may be easily imagined.

D’Artagnan perceived a man of some forty years, with black eyes, a strongly marked nose, and a black and well-shaped mustache. At the moment in which d’Artagnan saw him, the gentleman made one of his remarks, his listeners laughed louder, and he himself smiled. There could be no doubt; d’Artagnan was insulted. Endeavoring to copy the court airs he had picked up among young traveling nobles, he advanced with one hand on the hilt of his sword and the other on his hip. As he advanced, his anger increased; and instead of lofty speech, he found nothing at the tip of his tongue but a gross personality.

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

The gentleman raised his eyes as if to determine whether it could be to him that such strange reproaches were addressed, then replied, I was not speaking to you, sir.

But I am speaking to you! replied the young man.

The stranger came out of the hostelry and placed himself by d’Artagnan. The ironical expression of his countenance redoubled the mirth of the persons with whom he had been talking.

D’Artagnan drew his sword out of the scabbard.

This horse is decidedly a buttercup, resumed the stranger, a color well known in botany, but rare among horses.

There are people who laugh at the horse that would not dare to laugh at the master, cried d’Artagnan.

I do not often laugh, sir, replied the stranger, but I retain the privilege of laughing when I please.

And I, cried d’Artagnan, will allow no man to laugh when it displeases me!

Indeed, sir, continued the stranger, calmer than ever, and turning on his heel, was about to reenter the hostelry.

D’Artagnan followed him, crying, Turn, Master Joker, lest I strike you behind!

Strike me! said the other, turning and surveying him with astonishment. Why, you must be mad! D’Artagnan made such a furious lunge at him that if he had not sprung nimbly backward, it is probable he would have jested for the last time. The stranger drew his sword, saluted his adversary, and placed himself en garde. At the same moment, his two auditors, accompanied by the host, fell upon d’Artagnan with sticks. This caused such a diversion from the attack that d’Artagnan’s adversary sheathed his sword and became a spectator, muttering, A plague upon him! Replace him on his orange horse, and let him begone!

Not before I have killed you, poltroon! cried d’Artagnan.

By my honor, the other said, these Gascons are incorrigible! When he is tired, he will tell us that he has had enough.

But d’Artagnan was not the man ever to cry for quarter. The fight was prolonged; but at length d’Artagnan dropped his sword, which was broken in two pieces by the blow of a stick. Another blow full upon his forehead brought him to the ground, covered with blood. The host carried the wounded man into the kitchen.

As to the gentleman, he resumed his place at the window.

How is it with this madman? he exclaimed, turning as the noise of the door announced the entrance of the host.

He is better, said the host, he fainted quite away. First, he collected all his strength to challenge you.

Why, this fellow must be the devil! cried the stranger.

No, not the devil, replied the host, with a grin of contempt. We rummaged his bag and found nothing but a clean shirt and eleven crowns—which did not prevent his saying that if such a thing had happened in Paris, you should have cause to repent of it. He struck his pocket and said, ‘We shall see what Monsieur de Treville will think of this insult offered to his protégé.’

Monsieur de Treville? said the stranger. He put his hand upon his pocket while pronouncing the name Monsieur de Treville? You did not fail, I am sure, to ascertain what that pocket contained?

A letter addressed to Monsieur de Treville, captain of the Musketeers.

The host did not observe the expression that his words had given to the stranger. The latter knitted his brow.

Can Treville have set this Gascon upon me? murmured he. A sword thrust is a sword thrust, whatever the age of him who gives it. Host, where is he?

In my wife’s chamber, they are dressing his wounds.

His things are with him?

Everything is in the kitchen. If he annoys you—

To be sure he does. Go; make out my bill and notify my servant.

What the devil! said the host to himself. Can he be afraid of this boy? He bowed and retired.

It is not necessary for Milady to be seen by this fellow, continued the stranger. I should like, however, to know what this letter contains.

And the stranger directed his steps toward the kitchen.

In the meantime, the host, who entertained no doubt that it was the presence of the young man that drove the stranger from his hostelry, reascended to his wife’s chamber and found d’Artagnan recovering his senses. Giving him to understand that the police would deal with him severely for having sought a quarrel with a great lord—for in the opinion of the host the stranger could be nothing less—he insisted d’Artagnan depart. D’Artagnan, half stupefied, began to descend the stairs; the first thing he saw was his antagonist talking calmly at the step of a carriage to a woman.

This woman’s beauty struck d’Artagnan more forcibly from its being totally different from that of the southern countries in which he had resided. She was pale and fair, with long curls falling over her shoulders, had large, blue, languishing eyes, rosy lips, and hands of alabaster. She was talking with great animation with the stranger.

His Eminence, then, orders me— said the lady.

To return instantly to England. Inform him as soon as the duke leaves London.

My other instructions? asked the fair traveler.

Are contained in this box, which you will open on the other side of the Channel.

Very well; what will you do?

I return to Paris.

Without chastising this insolent boy? asked the lady.

D’Artagnan precipitated himself over the threshold of the door.

This insolent boy chastises others, cried he, and this time he whom he ought to chastise will not escape him. Before a woman you would dare not fly, I presume?

Remember, said Milady, the least delay may ruin everything.

You are right, cried the gentleman. Begone, and I will depart. He sprang into his saddle, while the lady’s coachman applied his whip vigorously to his horses. They took opposite directions.

Base coward! cried d’Artagnan, springing forward. Scarcely had he gone ten steps when a cloud of blood passed over his eyes, and he fell, crying, Coward!

He is a coward, indeed, grumbled the host, endeavoring to make up matters with the young man.

Yes, murmured d’Artagnan, but she was very beautiful.

What she? demanded the host.

Milady, faltered d’Artagnan, and fainted a second time.

I have lost two customers, but one remains, said the host. There will be eleven crowns gained.

It is to be remembered that eleven crowns was just the sum in d’Artagnan’s purse.

The host had reckoned upon eleven days of confinement at a crown a day, but had reckoned without his guest. The next morning d’Artagnan asked, among other ingredients, for oil, wine, and rosemary, and with his mother’s recipe composed a balsam, with which he anointed his wounds, and was almost cured by the morrow.

When the time came to pay for his rosemary, oil, and wine, d’Artagnan found nothing in his pocket but his purse; the letter for M. de Treville had disappeared. The young man flew into such a rage as was near costing him a fresh consumption of wine, oil, and rosemary—for upon seeing this hotheaded youth threaten to destroy everything in the establishment, the host seized a spit, his wife a broom handle, and the servants the sticks they had used the day before.

My letter of recommendation! cried d’Artagnan. I will spit you like ortolans!

There was an obstacle to the accomplishment of this threat; his sword had been in his first conflict broken in two. When d’Artagnan drew, he found himself armed with a stump about eight inches long.

This would not have stopped our fiery young man if the host had not reflected that the reclamation his guest made was perfectly just.

But, after all, said he, lowering his spit, where is this letter?

Yes, where is this letter? cried d’Artagnan. It is for Monsieur de Treville, and he will know how to find it.

His threat completed the intimidation of the host. After the king and the cardinal, M. de Treville was perhaps the most respected man in France. Throwing down his spit, he commenced a search for the lost letter.

Does the letter contain anything valuable? demanded the host.

It does indeed! cried the Gascon, who reckoned upon this letter for making his way at court. But the money is nothing; that letter was everything.

A ray of light broke upon the mind of the host.

That letter is not lost! cried he. It has been stolen. The gentleman who was here yesterday came down into the kitchen, where your doublet was. He remained there some time alone. I would lay a wager he has stolen it.

Do you think so? answered d’Artagnan, little convinced, as he knew how entirely personal the value of this letter was.

I am sure of it, continued the host. When I informed him that your lordship was the protégé of Monsieur de Treville, and had a letter for that gentleman, he asked where that letter was, and immediately came down into the kitchen.

That’s my thief, replied d’Artagnan. I will complain to Monsieur de Treville, and Monsieur de Treville will complain to the king. He drew two crowns majestically from his purse and gave them to the host, then remounted his yellow horse, which bore him to Paris, where his owner sold him for three crowns. The dealer to whom d’Artagnan sold him did not conceal that he only gave that sum on the account of the originality of his color.

Thus d’Artagnan entered Paris and walked about till he found an apartment to be let on terms suited to the scantiness of his means.

As soon as the money was paid, d’Artagnan took possession of his lodging, and passed the remainder of the day sewing onto his doublet some ornamental braiding and having a new blade put to his sword.

After this, full of hope for the future, he retired to bed and slept the sleep of the brave. This sleep brought him to nine o’clock in the morning, at which hour he rose, in order to repair to the residence of M. de Treville.

Chapter 2. The Antechamber of M. de Treville

M. de Treville had commenced life as d’Artagnan did: without a sou in his pocket, but with a fund of audacity and intelligence.

Treville was endowed with an obedient intelligence like a dog, with a blind valor, a quick eye, and a prompt hand; to him sight appeared to be given to see if the king were dissatisfied with anyone, and the hand to strike this displeasing person. At last Louis XIII made Treville the captain of his devoted Musketeers.

The cardinal had his Musketeers as Louis XIII had his, and these powerful rivals vied in procuring the most celebrated swordsmen. It was not uncommon for Richelieu and Louis XIII to dispute over their evening game of chess the merits of their servants.

Treville paraded his Musketeers before the cardinal with an insolent air that made the mustache of His Eminence curl with ire. Loose, half-drunk, imposing, the king’s Musketeers spread themselves about in the cabarets, in the public walks, and the public sports, shouting, twisting their mustaches, clanking their swords, taking pleasure in annoying the Guards of the cardinal, drawing in the open streets, sometimes killed, often killing others, but certain of not rotting in prison, M. de Treville being there to claim them.

The court of his house resembled a military camp. In the antechamber, upon long circular benches, reposed the elect, while M. de Treville in his office, like the king in his balcony at the Louvre, had only to place himself at the window to review his men.

On the day on which d’Artagnan presented himself, the assemblage was imposing. When he had passed the massive door, he fell into the midst of a troop of swordsmen playing tricks one with another. Our young man advanced with that half-smile of the embarrassed provincial who wishes to put on a good face. For the first time in his life, d’Artagnan felt ridiculous.

At the staircase, it was worse. There were four Musketeers on the steps, amusing themselves. One, upon the top stair, naked sword in hand, endeavored to prevent the three others from ascending. These others fenced against him with their agile swords. D’Artagnan at first took these weapons for foils, but soon perceived that every weapon was pointed and sharpened. D’Artagnan had seen a few of the preliminaries of duels; but the daring of these four fencers appeared to him the strongest he had ever heard of.

On the landing they were no longer fighting, but amused themselves with stories about women, and in the antechamber, with stories about the court. On the landing d’Artagnan blushed; in the antechamber he trembled. His imagination had never dreamed of half the amorous wonders or a quarter of the feats of gallantry set forth. His morals were shocked on the landing, his respect for the cardinal was scandalized in the antechamber. That great man served as an object of ridicule to the Musketeers, who cracked jokes upon his bandy legs and crooked back. Some sang ballads about his mistress; while others formed parties to annoy the Guards of the cardinal duke—all things that appeared to d’Artagnan monstrous impossibilities.

These fellows will be imprisoned or hanged, thought the terrified d’Artagnan, and I with them. He dared not join in the conversation, only looked and listened; and felt himself led by his instincts to praise rather than blame the unheard-of things taking place.

At length somebody came and asked him what he wanted. D’Artagnan begged the servant to request a moment’s audience of M. de Treville.

D’Artagnan, a little recovered from his first surprise, had now leisure to study costumes and physiognomy.

The center of the most animated group was a Musketeer of great height and haughty countenance, dressed in a costume so peculiar as to attract general attention. He did not wear the uniform cloak, but a cerulean-blue doublet, and over this a magnificent baldric, worked in gold, which shone like water in the sun. A long cloak of crimson velvet fell in graceful folds from his shoulders, disclosing in front the splendid baldric, from which was suspended a gigantic rapier. This Musketeer complained of having a cold, and coughed from time to time. It was for this reason, he said, that he wore his cloak; and while he twisted his mustache disdainfully, all admired his baldric.

What would you have? said the Musketeer. One must lay out one’s inheritance somehow.

Ah, Porthos! cried one of his companions. Don’t try to make us believe you obtained that baldric by paternal generosity. It was given to you by that veiled lady I met you with the other Sunday.

No, I bought it with the contents of my own purse, answered he whom they designated Porthos.

Yes, in the same manner, said another Musketeer, that I bought this purse with what my mistress put into the old one.

Is it not true, Aramis? said Porthos, turning toward another Musketeer.

This other Musketeer formed a perfect contrast to his interrogator. He was a stout man, of about three-and-twenty, with an open countenance and cheeks rosy and downy as an autumn peach. He answered his friend by an affirmative nod.

This affirmation appeared to dispel all doubts. They continued to admire the baldric, but said no more about it.

Monsieur de Treville awaits Monsieur d’Artagnan, cried a servant, throwing open the door of the cabinet.

At this announcement, during which the door remained open, everyone became mute. The young man entered the apartment of the captain of the Musketeers.

Chapter 3. The Audience

M. de Treville saluted the young man, but making a sign as if to ask his permission to finish with others before he began with him, called:

Athos! Porthos! Aramis!

The two Musketeers with whom we have already made acquaintance advanced. Their appearance, although not quite at ease, excited by its carelessness the admiration of d’Artagnan.

When the door was closed behind them, when M. de Treville had three or four times paced in silence the whole length of his cabinet, he stopped in front of them, and, with an angry look, Do you know what the king said to me, cried he, yesterday evening?

No, replied the two Musketeers, sir, we do not.

But I hope that you will tell us, added Aramis, in his politest tone.

He told me that he should henceforth recruit his Musketeers from among the Guards of Monsieur le Cardinal.

The two Musketeers reddened. D’Artagnan wished himself a hundred feet underground.

His Majesty was right, continued M. de Treville. "The Musketeers make a miserable figure at court. The cardinal related yesterday that those damned Musketeers, those braggarts had made a riot in a cabaret, and that a party of his Guards had been forced to arrest them! Arrest Musketeers! You were among them! You, Aramis, why did you ask me for a uniform when you would have been better in a cassock? And you, Porthos, do you only wear such a fine golden baldric to suspend a sword of straw from it? And Athos—where is he?"

Ill—

Of what malady?

It may be smallpox, sir, replied Porthos, and will certainly spoil his face.

Sick of smallpox at his age! No; wounded, killed, perhaps. Messieurs Musketeers, I will not have this quarreling in the streets. Above all, I will not have occasion given for the cardinal’s Guards to laugh at you! They would prefer dying on the spot to being arrested.

Porthos and Aramis trembled with rage. They could have strangled M. de Treville, if they had not felt it was the great love he bore them that made him speak thus. They stamped upon the carpet with their feet, bit their lips till the blood came, and grasped the hilts of their swords.

The king’s Musketeers arrested by the Guards of the cardinal? continued M. de Treville, as furious as his soldiers. Six of His Eminence’s Guards arrest six of His Majesty’s Musketeers! I will give in my resignation as captain of the king’s Musketeers to take a lieutenancy in the cardinal’s Guards.

D’Artagnan looked for some tapestry behind which he might hide.

My Captain, said Porthos, we were six against six. But we were not captured by fair means; before we had time to draw our swords, two of our party were dead, and Athos grievously wounded. And we did not surrender! They dragged us away by force. On the way we escaped. As for Athos, they believed him dead, and left him on the field of battle. What the devil, Captain, one cannot win all one’s battles!

And I have the honor of assuring you that I killed one with his own sword, said Aramis, for mine was broken at the first parry.

I did not know that, replied M. de Treville, in a softened tone. The cardinal exaggerated, I perceive.

Pray, sir, continued Aramis, do not say that Athos is wounded. As the wound penetrates into the chest, it is to be feared—

At this instant the tapestry was raised and a noble head, frightfully pale, appeared.

Athos! cried the two Musketeers.

You have sent for me, sir, said Athos to M. de Treville, in a feeble yet calm voice. I am here.

At these words, the Musketeer, in irreproachable costume, entered the cabinet. M. de Treville, moved to the bottom of his heart by this proof of courage, sprang toward him.

I was about to say, said he, that I forbid my Musketeers to expose their lives needlessly; brave men are dear to the king, and his Musketeers are the bravest on earth. Your hand, Athos!

Then Athos fell upon the floor as if he were dead.

A surgeon! cried M. de Treville. Or my brave Athos will die!

This eager attention might have been useless if the doctor had not chanced to be in the hotel. He pushed through the crowd and required that the Musketeer should be carried into an adjoining chamber.

At length, M. de Treville returned. The injured man