Chapter I. — THE THREE PRESENTS OF D’ARTAGNAN THE ELDER

THE THREE PRESENTS OF D’ARTAGNAN THE ELDER

On the first Monday of the month of April, 1625, the market town of
Meung, in which the author of _Romance of the Rose_ was born, appeared
to be in as perfect a state of revolution as if the Huguenots had just
made a second La Rochelle of it. Many citizens, seeing the women flying
toward the High Street, leaving their children crying at the open
doors, hastened to don the cuirass, and supporting their somewhat
uncertain courage with a musket or a partisan, directed their steps
toward the hostelry of the Jolly Miller, before which was gathered,
increasing every minute, a compact group, vociferous and full of
curiosity.

In those times panics were common, and few days passed without some
city or other registering in its archives an event of this kind. There
were nobles, who made war against each other; there was the king, who
made war against the cardinal; there was Spain, which made war against
the king. Then, in addition to these concealed or public, secret or
open wars, there were robbers, mendicants, Huguenots, wolves, and
scoundrels, who made war upon everybody. The citizens always took up
arms readily against thieves, wolves or scoundrels, often against
nobles or Huguenots, sometimes against the king, but never against the
cardinal or Spain. It resulted, then, from this habit that on the said
first Monday of April, 1625, the citizens, on hearing the clamor, and
seeing neither the red-and-yellow standard nor the livery of the Duc de
Richelieu, rushed toward the hostel of the Jolly Miller. When arrived
there, the cause of the hubbub was apparent to all.

A young man—we can sketch his portrait at a dash. Imagine to yourself a
Don Quixote of eighteen; a Don Quixote without his corselet, without
his coat of mail, without his cuisses; a Don Quixote clothed in a
woolen doublet, the blue color of which had faded into a nameless shade
between lees of wine and a heavenly azure; face long and brown; high
cheek bones, a sign of sagacity; the maxillary muscles enormously
developed, an infallible sign by which a Gascon may always be detected,
even without his cap—and our young man wore a cap set off with a sort
of feather; the eye open and intelligent; the nose hooked, but finely
chiseled. Too big for a youth, too small for a grown man, an
experienced eye might have taken him for a farmer’s son upon a journey
had it not been for the long sword which, dangling from a leather
baldric, hit against the calves of its owner as he walked, and against
the rough side of his steed when he was on horseback.

For our young man had a steed which was the observed of all observers.
It was a Béarn pony, from twelve to fourteen years old, yellow in his
hide, without a hair in his tail, but not without windgalls on his
legs, which, though going with his head lower than his knees, rendering
a martingale quite unnecessary, contrived nevertheless to perform his
eight leagues a day. Unfortunately, the qualities of this horse were so
well concealed under his strange-colored hide and his unaccountable
gait, that at a time when everybody was a connoisseur in horseflesh,
the appearance of the aforesaid pony at Meung—which place he had
entered about a quarter of an hour before, by the gate of
Beaugency—produced an unfavorable feeling, which extended to his rider.

And this feeling had been more painfully perceived by young
D’Artagnan—for so was the Don Quixote of this second Rosinante
named—from his not being able to conceal from himself the ridiculous
appearance that such a steed gave him, good horseman as he was. He had
sighed deeply, therefore, when accepting the gift of the pony from M.
d’Artagnan the elder. He was not ignorant that such a beast was worth
at least twenty livres; and the words which had accompanied the present
were above all price.

“My son,” said the old Gascon gentleman, in that pure Béarn _patois_ of
which Henry IV. could never rid himself, “this horse was born in the
house of your father about thirteen years ago, and has remained in it
ever since, which ought to make you love it. Never sell it; allow it to
die tranquilly and honorably of old age, and if you make a campaign
with it, take as much care of it as you would of an old servant. At
court, provided you have ever the honor to go there,” continued M.
d’Artagnan the elder, “—an honor to which, remember, your ancient
nobility gives you the right—sustain worthily your name of gentleman,
which has been worthily borne by your ancestors for five hundred years,
both for your own sake and the sake of those who belong to you. By the
latter I mean your relatives and friends. Endure nothing from anyone
except Monsieur the Cardinal and the king. It is by his courage, please
observe, by his courage alone, that a gentleman can make his way
nowadays. Whoever hesitates for a second perhaps allows the bait to
escape which during that exact second fortune held out to him. You are
young. You ought to be brave for two reasons: the first is that you are
a Gascon, and the second is that you are my son. Never fear quarrels,
but seek adventures. I have taught you how to handle a sword; you have
thews of iron, a wrist of steel. Fight on all occasions. Fight the more
for duels being forbidden, since consequently there is twice as much
courage in fighting. I have nothing to give you, my son, but fifteen
crowns, my horse, and the counsels you have just heard. Your mother
will add to them a recipe for a certain balsam, which she had from a
Bohemian and which has the miraculous virtue of curing all wounds that
do not reach the heart. Take advantage of all, and live happily and
long. I have but one word to add, and that is to propose an example to
you—not mine, for I myself have never appeared at court, and have only
taken part in religious wars as a volunteer; I speak of Monsieur de
Tréville, who was formerly my neighbor, and who had the honor to be, as
a child, the play-fellow of our king, Louis XIII., whom God preserve!
Sometimes their play degenerated into battles, and in these battles the
king was not always the stronger. The blows which he received increased
greatly his esteem and friendship for Monsieur de Tréville. Afterward,
Monsieur de Tréville fought with others: in his first journey to Paris,
five times; from the death of the late king till the young one came of
age, without reckoning wars and sieges, seven times; and from that date
up to the present day, a hundred times, perhaps! So that in spite of
edicts, ordinances, and decrees, there he is, captain of the
Musketeers; that is to say, chief of a legion of Cæsars, whom the king
holds in great esteem and whom the cardinal dreads—he who dreads
nothing, as it is said. Still further, Monsieur de Tréville gains ten
thousand crowns a year; he is therefore a great noble. He began as you
begin. Go to him with this letter, and make him your model in order
that you may do as he has done.”

Upon which M. d’Artagnan the elder girded his own sword round his son,
kissed him tenderly on both cheeks, and gave him his benediction.

On leaving the paternal chamber, the young man found his mother, who
was waiting for him with the famous recipe of which the counsels we
have just repeated would necessitate frequent employment. The adieux
were on this side longer and more tender than they had been on the
other—not that M. d’Artagnan did not love his son, who was his only
offspring, but M. d’Artagnan was a man, and he would have considered it
unworthy of a man to give way to his feelings; whereas Mme. D’Artagnan
was a woman, and still more, a mother. She wept abundantly; and—let us
speak it to the praise of M. d’Artagnan the younger—notwithstanding the
efforts he made to remain firm, as a future Musketeer ought, nature
prevailed, and he shed many tears, of which he succeeded with great
difficulty in concealing the half.

The same day the young man set forward on his journey, furnished with
the three paternal gifts, which consisted, as we have said, of fifteen
crowns, the horse, and the letter for M. de Tréville—the counsels being
thrown into the bargain.

With such a _vade mecum_ D’Artagnan was morally and physically an exact
copy of the hero of Cervantes, to whom we so happily compared him when
our duty of an historian placed us under the necessity of sketching his
portrait. Don Quixote took windmills for giants, and sheep for armies;
D’Artagnan took every smile for an insult, and every look as a
provocation—whence it resulted that from Tarbes to Meung his fist was
constantly doubled, or his hand on the hilt of his sword; and yet the
fist did not descend upon any jaw, nor did the sword issue from its
scabbard. It was not that the sight of the wretched pony did not excite
numerous smiles on the countenances of passers-by; but as against the
side of this pony rattled a sword of respectable length, and as over
this sword gleamed an eye rather ferocious than haughty, these
passers-by repressed their hilarity, or if hilarity prevailed over
prudence, they endeavored to laugh only on one side, like the masks of
the ancients. D’Artagnan, then, remained majestic and intact in his
susceptibility, till he came to this unlucky city of Meung.

But there, as he was alighting from his horse at the gate of the Jolly
Miller, without anyone—host, waiter, or hostler—coming to hold his
stirrup or take his horse, D’Artagnan spied, though an open window on
the ground floor, a gentleman, well-made and of good carriage, although
of rather a stern countenance, talking with two persons who appeared to
listen to him with respect. D’Artagnan fancied quite naturally,
according to his custom, that he must be the object of their
conversation, and listened. This time D’Artagnan was only in part
mistaken; he himself was not in question, but his horse was. The
gentleman appeared to be enumerating all his qualities to his auditors;
and, as I have said, the auditors seeming to have great deference for
the narrator, they every moment burst into fits of laughter. Now, as a
half-smile was sufficient to awaken the irascibility of the young man,
the effect produced upon him by this vociferous mirth may be easily
imagined.

Nevertheless, D’Artagnan was desirous of examining the appearance of
this impertinent personage who ridiculed him. He fixed his haughty eye
upon the stranger, and perceived a man of from forty to forty-five
years of age, with black and piercing eyes, pale complexion, a strongly
marked nose, and a black and well-shaped mustache. He was dressed in a
doublet and hose of a violet color, with aiguillettes of the same
color, without any other ornaments than the customary slashes, through
which the shirt appeared. This doublet and hose, though new, were
creased, like traveling clothes for a long time packed in a
portmanteau. D’Artagnan made all these remarks with the rapidity of a
most minute observer, and doubtless from an instinctive feeling that
this stranger was destined to have a great influence over his future
life.

Now, as at the moment in which D’Artagnan fixed his eyes upon the
gentleman in the violet doublet, the gentleman made one of his most
knowing and profound remarks respecting the Béarnese pony, his two
auditors laughed even louder than before, and he himself, though
contrary to his custom, allowed a pale smile (if I may be allowed to
use such an expression) to stray over his countenance. This time there
could be no doubt; D’Artagnan was really insulted. Full, then, of this
conviction, he pulled his cap down over his eyes, and endeavoring to
copy some of the court airs he had picked up in Gascony among young
traveling nobles, he advanced with one hand on the hilt of his sword
and the other resting on his hip. Unfortunately, as he advanced, his
anger increased at every step; and instead of the proper and lofty
speech he had prepared as a prelude to his challenge, he found nothing
at the tip of his tongue but a gross personality, which he accompanied
with a furious gesture.

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

The gentleman raised his eyes slowly from the nag to his cavalier, as
if he required some time to ascertain whether it could be to him that
such strange reproaches were addressed; then, when he could not
possibly entertain any doubt of the matter, his eyebrows slightly bent,
and with an accent of irony and insolence impossible to be described,
he replied to D’Artagnan, “I was not speaking to you, sir.”

“But I am speaking to you!” replied the young man, additionally
exasperated with this mixture of insolence and good manners, of
politeness and scorn.

The stranger looked at him again with a slight smile, and retiring from
the window, came out of the hostelry with a slow step, and placed
himself before the horse, within two paces of D’Artagnan. His quiet
manner and the ironical expression of his countenance redoubled the
mirth of the persons with whom he had been talking, and who still
remained at the window.

D’Artagnan, seeing him approach, drew his sword a foot out of the
scabbard.

“This horse is decidedly, or rather has been in his youth, a
buttercup,” resumed the stranger, continuing the remarks he had begun,
and addressing himself to his auditors at the window, without paying
the least attention to the exasperation of D’Artagnan, who, however,
placed himself between him and them. “It is a color very well known in
botany, but till the present time very rare among horses.”

“There are people who laugh at the horse that would not dare to laugh
at the master,” cried the young emulator of the furious Tréville.

“I do not often laugh, sir,” replied the stranger, “as you may perceive
by the expression of my countenance; but nevertheless 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, more calm than ever; “well, that
is perfectly right!” and turning on his heel, was about to re-enter the
hostelry by the front gate, beneath which D’Artagnan on arriving had
observed a saddled horse.

But, D’Artagnan was not of a character to allow a man to escape him
thus who had the insolence to ridicule him. He drew his sword entirely
from the scabbard, and followed him, crying, “Turn, turn, Master Joker,
lest I strike you behind!”

“Strike me!” said the other, turning on his heels, and surveying the
young man with as much astonishment as contempt. “Why, my good fellow,
you must be mad!” Then, in a suppressed tone, as if speaking to
himself, “This is annoying,” continued he. “What a godsend this would
be for his Majesty, who is seeking everywhere for brave fellows to
recruit for his Musketeers!”

He had scarcely finished, when 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, then perceiving that the
matter went beyond raillery, drew his sword, saluted his adversary, and
seriously placed himself on guard. But at the same moment, his two
auditors, accompanied by the host, fell upon D’Artagnan with sticks,
shovels and tongs. This caused so rapid and complete a diversion from
the attack that D’Artagnan’s adversary, while the latter turned round
to face this shower of blows, sheathed his sword with the same
precision, and instead of an actor, which he had nearly been, became a
spectator of the fight—a part in which he acquitted himself with his
usual impassiveness, muttering, nevertheless, “A plague upon these
Gascons! Replace him on his orange horse, and let him begone!”

“Not before I have killed you, poltroon!” cried D’Artagnan, making the
best face possible, and never retreating one step before his three
assailants, who continued to shower blows upon him.

“Another gasconade!” murmured the gentleman. “By my honor, these
Gascons are incorrigible! Keep up the dance, then, since he will have
it so. When he is tired, he will perhaps tell us that he has had enough
of it.”

But the stranger knew not the headstrong personage he had to do with;
D’Artagnan was not the man ever to cry for quarter. The fight was
therefore prolonged for some seconds; 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 at the same moment brought him to
the ground, covered with blood and almost fainting.

It was at this moment that people came flocking to the scene of action
from all sides. The host, fearful of consequences, with the help of his
servants carried the wounded man into the kitchen, where some trifling
attentions were bestowed upon him.

As to the gentleman, he resumed his place at the window, and surveyed
the crowd with a certain impatience, evidently annoyed by their
remaining undispersed.

“Well, how is it with this madman?” exclaimed he, turning round as the
noise of the door announced the entrance of the host, who came in to
inquire if he was unhurt.

“Your Excellency is safe and sound?” asked the host.

“Oh, yes! Perfectly safe and sound, my good host; and I wish to know
what has become of our young man.”

“He is better,” said the host, “he fainted quite away.”

“Indeed!” said the gentleman.

“But before he fainted, he collected all his strength to challenge you,
and to defy you while challenging you.”

“Why, this fellow must be the devil in person!” cried the stranger.

“Oh, no, your Excellency, he is not the devil,” replied the host, with
a grin of contempt; “for during his fainting we rummaged his valise and
found nothing but a clean shirt and eleven crowns—which however, did
not prevent his saying, as he was fainting, that if such a thing had
happened in Paris, you should have cause to repent of it at a later
period.”

“Then,” said the stranger coolly, “he must be some prince in disguise.”

“I have told you this, good sir,” resumed the host, “in order that you
may be on your guard.”

“Did he name no one in his passion?”

“Yes; he struck his pocket and said, ‘We shall see what Monsieur de
Tréville will think of this insult offered to his _protégé_.’”

“Monsieur de Tréville?” said the stranger, becoming attentive, “he put
his hand upon his pocket while pronouncing the name of Monsieur de
Tréville? Now, my dear host, while your young man was insensible, you
did not fail, I am quite sure, to ascertain what that pocket contained.
What was there in it?”

“A letter addressed to Monsieur de Tréville, captain of the
Musketeers.”

“Indeed!”

“Exactly as I have the honor to tell your Excellency.”

The host, who was not endowed with great perspicacity, did not observe
the expression which his words had given to the physiognomy of the
stranger. The latter rose from the front of the window, upon the sill
of which he had leaned with his elbow, and knitted his brow like a man
disquieted.

“The devil!” murmured he, between his teeth. “Can Tréville have set
this Gascon upon me? He is very young; but a sword thrust is a sword
thrust, whatever be the age of him who gives it, and a youth is less to
be suspected than an older man,” and the stranger fell into a reverie
which lasted some minutes. “A weak obstacle is sometimes sufficient to
overthrow a great design.

“Host,” said he, “could you not contrive to get rid of this frantic boy
for me? In conscience, I cannot kill him; and yet,” added he, with a
coldly menacing expression, “he annoys me. Where is he?”

“In my wife’s chamber, on the first flight, where they are dressing his
wounds.”

“His things and his bag are with him? Has he taken off his doublet?”

“On the contrary, everything is in the kitchen. But if he annoys you,
this young fool—”

“To be sure he does. He causes a disturbance in your hostelry, which
respectable people cannot put up with. Go; make out my bill and notify
my servant.”

“What, monsieur, will you leave us so soon?”

“You know that very well, as I gave my order to saddle my horse. Have
they not obeyed me?”

“It is done; as your Excellency may have observed, your horse is in the
great gateway, ready saddled for your departure.”

“That is well; do as I have directed you, then.”

“What the devil!” said the host to himself. “Can he be afraid of this
boy?” But an imperious glance from the stranger stopped him short; he
bowed humbly and retired.

“It is not necessary for Milady* to be seen by this fellow,” continued
the stranger. “She will soon pass; she is already late. I had better
get on horseback, and go and meet her. I should like, however, to know
what this letter addressed to Tréville contains.” And the stranger,
muttering to himself, directed his steps toward the kitchen.

* We are well aware that this term, milady, is only properly used when
followed by a family name. But we find it thus in the manuscript, and
we do not choose to take upon ourselves to alter it.

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,
re-ascended to his wife’s chamber, and found D’Artagnan just recovering
his senses. Giving him to understand that the police would deal with
him pretty severely for having sought a quarrel with a great lord—for
in the opinion of the host the stranger could be nothing less than a
great lord—he insisted that notwithstanding his weakness D’Artagnan
should get up and depart as quickly as possible. D’Artagnan, half
stupefied, without his doublet, and with his head bound up in a linen
cloth, arose then, and urged by the host, began to descend the stairs;
but on arriving at the kitchen, the first thing he saw was his
antagonist talking calmly at the step of a heavy carriage, drawn by two
large Norman horses.

His interlocutor, whose head appeared through the carriage window, was
a woman of from twenty to two-and-twenty years. We have already
observed with what rapidity D’Artagnan seized the expression of a
countenance. He perceived then, at a glance, that this woman was young
and beautiful; and her style of beauty struck him more forcibly from
its being totally different from that of the southern countries in
which D’Artagnan had hitherto resided. She was pale and fair, with long
curls falling in profusion 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, and to inform him as soon as the duke
leaves London.”

“And as to my other instructions?” asked the fair traveler.

“They are contained in this box, which you will not open until you are
on the other side of the Channel.”

“Very well; and you—what will you do?”

“I—I return to Paris.”

“What, without chastising this insolent boy?” asked the lady.

The stranger was about to reply; but at the moment he opened his mouth,
D’Artagnan, who had heard all, precipitated himself over the threshold
of the door.

“This insolent boy chastises others,” cried he; “and I hope that this
time he whom he ought to chastise will not escape him as before.”

“Will not escape him?” replied the stranger, knitting his brow.

“No; before a woman you would dare not fly, I presume?”

“Remember,” said Milady, seeing the stranger lay his hand on his sword,
“the least delay may ruin everything.”

“You are right,” cried the gentleman; “begone then, on your part, and I
will depart as quickly on mine.” And bowing to the lady, he sprang into
his saddle, while her coachman applied his whip vigorously to his
horses. The two interlocutors thus separated, taking opposite
directions, at full gallop.

“Pay him, booby!” cried the stranger to his servant, without checking
the speed of his horse; and the man, after throwing two or three silver
pieces at the foot of mine host, galloped after his master.

“Base coward! false gentleman!” cried D’Artagnan, springing forward, in
his turn, after the servant. But his wound had rendered him too weak to
support such an exertion. Scarcely had he gone ten steps when his ears
began to tingle, a faintness seized him, a cloud of blood passed over
his eyes, and he fell in the middle of the street, crying still,
“Coward! coward! coward!”

“He is a coward, indeed,” grumbled the host, drawing near to
D’Artagnan, and endeavoring by this little flattery to make up matters
with the young man, as the heron of the fable did with the snail he had
despised the evening before.

“Yes, a base coward,” murmured D’Artagnan; “but she—she was very
beautiful.”

“What _she?_” demanded the host.

“Milady,” faltered D’Artagnan, and fainted a second time.

“Ah, it’s all one,” said the host; “I have lost two customers, but this
one remains, of whom I am pretty certain for some days to come. There
will be eleven crowns gained.”

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

The host had reckoned upon eleven days of confinement at a crown a day,
but he had reckoned without his guest. On the following morning at five
o’clock D’Artagnan arose, and descending to the kitchen without help,
asked, among other ingredients the list of which has not come down to
us, for some oil, some wine, and some rosemary, and with his mother’s
recipe in his hand composed a balsam, with which he anointed his
numerous wounds, replacing his bandages himself, and positively
refusing the assistance of any doctor, D’Artagnan walked about that
same evening, and was almost cured by the morrow.

But when the time came to pay for his rosemary, this oil, and the wine,
the only expense the master had incurred, as he had preserved a strict
abstinence—while on the contrary, the yellow horse, by the account of
the hostler at least, had eaten three times as much as a horse of his
size could reasonably be supposed to have done—D’Artagnan found nothing
in his pocket but his little old velvet purse with the eleven crowns it
contained; for as to the letter addressed to M. de Tréville, it had
disappeared.

The young man commenced his search for the letter with the greatest
patience, turning out his pockets of all kinds over and over again,
rummaging and rerummaging in his valise, and opening and reopening his
purse; but when he found that he had come to the conviction that the
letter was not to be found, he flew, for the third time, into such a
rage as was near costing him a fresh consumption of wine, oil, and
rosemary—for upon seeing this hot-headed youth become exasperated and
threaten to destroy everything in the establishment if his letter were
not found, the host seized a spit, his wife a broom handle, and the
servants the same sticks they had used the day before.

“My letter of recommendation!” cried D’Artagnan, “my letter of
recommendation! or, the holy blood, I will spit you all like ortolans!”

Unfortunately, there was one circumstance which created a powerful
obstacle to the accomplishment of this threat; which was, as we have
related, that his sword had been in his first conflict broken in two,
and which he had entirely forgotten. Hence, it resulted when D’Artagnan
proceeded to draw his sword in earnest, he found himself purely and
simply armed with a stump of a sword about eight or ten inches in
length, which the host had carefully placed in the scabbard. As to the
rest of the blade, the master had slyly put that on one side to make
himself a larding pin.

But this deception would probably not have stopped our fiery young man
if the host had not reflected that the reclamation which his guest made
was perfectly just.

“But, after all,” said he, lowering the point of his spit, “where is
this letter?”

“Yes, where is this letter?” cried D’Artagnan. “In the first place, I
warn you that that letter is for Monsieur de Tréville, and it must be
found, or if it is not found, he will know how to find it.”

His threat completed the intimidation of the host. After the king and
the cardinal, M. de Tréville was the man whose name was perhaps most
frequently repeated by the military, and even by citizens. There was,
to be sure, Father Joseph, but his name was never pronounced but with a
subdued voice, such was the terror inspired by his Gray Eminence, as
the cardinal’s familiar was called.

Throwing down his spit, and ordering his wife to do the same with her
broom handle, and the servants with their sticks, he set the first
example of commencing an earnest search for the lost letter.

“Does the letter contain anything valuable?” demanded the host, after a
few minutes of useless investigation.

“Zounds! I think it does indeed!” cried the Gascon, who reckoned upon
this letter for making his way at court. “It contained my fortune!”

“Bills upon Spain?” asked the disturbed host.

“Bills upon his Majesty’s private treasury,” answered D’Artagnan, who,
reckoning upon entering into the king’s service in consequence of this
recommendation, believed he could make this somewhat hazardous reply
without telling of a falsehood.

“The devil!” cried the host, at his wits’ end.

“But it’s of no importance,” continued D’Artagnan, with natural
assurance; “it’s of no importance. The money is nothing; that letter
was everything. I would rather have lost a thousand pistoles than have
lost it.” He would not have risked more if he had said twenty thousand;
but a certain juvenile modesty restrained him.

A ray of light all at once broke upon the mind of the host as he was
giving himself to the devil upon finding nothing.

“That letter is not lost!” cried he.

“What!” cried D’Artagnan.

“No, it has been stolen from you.”

“Stolen? By whom?”

“By the gentleman who was here yesterday. He 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, but little convinced, as he
knew better than anyone else how entirely personal the value of this
letter was, and saw nothing in it likely to tempt cupidity. The fact
was that none of his servants, none of the travelers present, could
have gained anything by being possessed of this paper.

“Do you say,” resumed D’Artagnan, “that you suspect that impertinent
gentleman?”

“I tell you I am sure of it,” continued the host. “When I informed him
that your lordship was the _protégé_ of Monsieur de Tréville, and that
you even had a letter for that illustrious gentleman, he appeared to be
very much disturbed, and asked me where that letter was, and
immediately came down into the kitchen, where he knew your doublet
was.”

“Then that’s my thief,” replied D’Artagnan. “I will complain to
Monsieur de Tréville, and Monsieur de Tréville will complain to the
king.” He then drew two crowns majestically from his purse and gave
them to the host, who accompanied him, cap in hand, to the gate, and
remounted his yellow horse, which bore him without any further accident
to the gate of St. Antoine at Paris, where his owner sold him for three
crowns, which was a very good price, considering that D’Artagnan had
ridden him hard during the last stage. Thus the dealer to whom
D’Artagnan sold him for the nine livres did not conceal from the young
man that he only gave that enormous sum for him on the account of the
originality of his color.

Thus D’Artagnan entered Paris on foot, carrying his little packet under
his arm, and walked about till he found an apartment to be let on terms
suited to the scantiness of his means. This chamber was a sort of
garret, situated in the Rue des Fossoyeurs, near the Luxembourg.

As soon as the earnest money was paid, D’Artagnan took possession of
his lodging, and passed the remainder of the day in sewing onto his
doublet and hose some ornamental braiding which his mother had taken
off an almost-new doublet of the elder M. d’Artagnan, and which she had
given her son secretly. Next he went to the Quai de Feraille to have a
new blade put to his sword, and then returned toward the Louvre,
inquiring of the first Musketeer he met for the situation of the hôtel
of M. de Tréville, which proved to be in the Rue du Vieux-Colombier;
that is to say, in the immediate vicinity of the chamber hired by
D’Artagnan—a circumstance which appeared to furnish a happy augury for
the success of his journey.

After this, satisfied with the way in which he had conducted himself at
Meung, without remorse for the past, confident in the present, and full
of hope for the future, he retired to bed and slept the sleep of the
brave.

This sleep, provincial as it was, brought him to nine o’clock in the
morning; at which hour he rose, in order to repair to the residence of
M. de Tréville, the third personage in the kingdom, in the paternal
estimation.