“Now we still have to get news of Athos,” said D’Artagnan to the vivacious Aramis, when he had informed him of all that had passed since their departure from the capital, and when a good dinner had made one of them forget his woes and the other his fatigue.
“Do you think any harm can have happened to him?” asked Aramis. “Athos is so cool, so brave, and handles his sword so skilfully.”
“There is no doubt of that. Nobody has a higher opinion of the courage and skill of Athos than I have; but I like better to hear my sword clang against lances than against staves. I fear lest Athos has been carried down by a mob of menials. Those fellows strike hard, and don’t leave off in a hurry. This is my reason for wishing to set out again as soon as I possibly can.”
“I will try to accompany you,” said Aramis, “though I scarcely feel in a condition to mount on horseback. When do you set out?”
“To-morrow at daybreak.”
“Till to-morrow, then,” said Aramis; “for though you are made of iron you must need repose.”
The next morning, when D’Artagnan entered Aramis’s chamber, he found him standing at the window.
“My dear Aramis; take care of yourself,” said he; “I will go alone in search of Athos.”
“You are a man of bronze,” replied Aramis.
“No, I have good luck, that is all. But how do you mean to pass your time till I come back?”
Aramis smiled. “I will make verses,” said he.
“Yes, verses perfumed with the odour of the note from Madame de Chevreuse’s serving-maid.”
“Oh, make yourself easy on that head,” replied Aramis; “you will find me ready to follow you.”
They took leave of each other, and ten minutes later, after commending his friend to the care of Bazin and the hostess, D’Artagnan was trotting along in the direction of Amiens.
About eleven o’clock in the morning they perceived Ameins. At half-past eleven they were at the door of the cursed inn.
D’Artagnan related to Athos how he had found Porthos and Aramis. As he finished, the landlord entered with wine and a ham.
“Good!” said Athos, filling his glass and D’Artagnan’s. “Here’s to Porthos and Aramis! But, my friend, what is the matter with you, and what has happened to you personally? You don’t look happy.”
“Alas!” said D’Artagnan, “it is because I am the most unfortunate of all.”
“You unfortunate!” said Athos. “Come! how the devil can you be unfortunate? Tell me that.”
“Presently,” said D’Artagnan.
“Presently! And why presently? Because you think I am drunk, D’Artagnan? Keep this in mind: my ideas are never so clear as when I have had plenty of wine. Speak, then; I am all ears.”
D’Artagnan related his adventure with Madame Bonacieux. Athos listened to him without moving a muscle, and when he had finished,
“Trifles all that,” said Athos—“nothing but trifles!” That was Athos’s favourite expression.
“You always say trifles, my dear Athos,” said D’Artagnan, “and that comes very ill from you, who have never been in love.”
Athos’s dull eye flashed suddenly, but it was only a flash; it became dull and vacant as before.
“True,” said he quietly, “I have never been in love.”
“Acknowledge, then, you stony-hearted man,” said D’Artagnan, “that you have no right to be so hard on us whose hearts are tender.”
“Your misfortune is laughable,” said Athos, shrugging his shoulders. “I should like to know what you would say if I were to relate to you a real tale of love.”
“Which concerns you?”
“Or one of my friends. What difference does it make?”
“Tell it, Athos, tell it.”
“Let us drink! That will be better.”
“Drink while you tell it!”
“Not a bad idea!” said Athos, emptying and filling his glass; “the two things go marvellously well together.”
“I am all attention,” said D’Artagnan.
Athos collected himself, and in proportion as he did so, D’Artagnan saw that he became paler. He was at that period of intoxication in which vulgar drinkers fall on the floor and go to sleep. But he dreamed aloud, without sleeping. This somnambulism of drunkenness had something frightful about it.
“You absolutely wish it?” he asked.
“I beg you to do it,” said D’Artagnan.
“Be it, then, as you desire. A friend of mine—please to observe, a friend of mine, not myself,” said Athos, interrupting himself with a gloomy smile—“one of the counts of my province (that is to say, of Berry), noble as a Dandolo or a Montmorency, when he was twenty-five years old fell in love with a girl of sixteen, beautiful as an angel. Through the ingenuousness of her age beamed an ardent mind—not a woman’s mind, but a poet’s. She did not please; she intoxicated. She lived in a small town with her brother, who was a vicar. Both had recently come into the country. Nobody knew where they came from; but on seeing her so lovely and her brother so pious, nobody thought of asking where they came from. They were said, however, to be of good extraction. My friend, who was lord of the country, might have seduced her; or he might have seized her forcibly, at his will, for he was master. Who would have come to the assistance of two strangers, two unknown persons? Unfortunately, he was an honourable man; he married her. The fool! the ass! the idiot!”
“How so, if he loved her?” asked D’Artagnan.
“Wait!” said Athos. “He took her to his chateau, and made her the first lady in the province; and in justice, it must be allowed she supported her rank becomingly.”
“Well?” asked D’Artagnan.
