The Three Musketeers (The Modern Library) - Alexandre Dumas [151]
“Surely Monsieur knows that the authorities never relinquish anything they lay their hands on. Had your money been counterfeit, there might be a chance; but as luck would have it, your coins were sound.”
“Well, my good friend, all that is your problem! It does not concern me personally, the more so since I have not a sou.”
D’Artagnan came to the rescue:
“How much is that horse worth?” D’Artagnan asked.
“Monsieur’s horse is in the stable,” the landlord put in eagerly.
“How much is that horse worth?” D’Artagnan asked.
“Fifty pistoles at most,” the landlord answered shrewdly.
“It is worth eighty,” D’Artagnan insisted. “Keep it, host, and let us forget the whole matter.”
“What!” Athos objected. “You are selling my horse? my trusty Bajazet? And pray how shall I manage in the forthcoming campaign? Do you expect me to ride pickaback on Grimaud?”
“No, Athos, I have brought you another horse to take the place of your Bajazet.”
“And a magnificent animal it is, too, Monsieur!” the landlord commented.
“Very good,” Athos drawled. “Now that I have a younger and handsomer mount, keep the old one, landlord, and fetch us up some wine.”
“What wine do you desire?” the host smirked, his serenity and cheer once again in the ascendant.
“Some of that wine at the very back of your cellar, my good man, just next to the laths. There are twenty-five bottles of it left; all the rest were broken when I fell backwards. Bring up six of them, host.”
“The man is a cask, a vat, a tun!” the innkeeper mused. “If he stays here another fortnight and pays for what he drinks, I shall catch up on my losses and even start making a profit again.”
“Don’t forget to take up four bottles of the same to the two English gentlemen,” D’Artagnan ordered, as the host disappeared.
“Now that we are alone, my dear D’Artagnan,” Athos said as soon as the door closed, “what about Porthos and Aramis? Tell me what has been going on; I am hungry for news.”
D’Artagnan told his friend how he had found Porthos in bed with a sprained knee and Aramis cheek by jowl over a doctoral table with a brace of theologians. Just as he finished the landlord reappeared with six bottles and a ham which, fortunately for him, had not been stored in the cellar.
“Your news is good,” Athos said as he filled his glass and D’Artagnan’s. “So much for Porthos and Aramis. But you, my friend, what of you, what happened to you personally? You look anything but happy.”
“Ah, my dear Athos, I am the unhappiest of us all!”
“You unhappy, my good D’Artagnan. Come, how are you unhappy? Tell me.”
“I shall tell you later.”
“Later? Why later? Because you think I am drunk, D’Artagnan? Mark my words, D’Artagnan, and remember this: my ideas are never so clear as when I am in wine. Speak up, then, I am hanging on your every word.”
D’Artagnan related his adventure with Madame Bonacieux as Athos listened in complete silence; then, when D’Artagnan was done:
“All these things are but trifles,” he commented, “mere trifles!”
“I know that is your favorite expression, Athos; you dismiss the most harrowing events as mere trifles. That comes very ill from you who have never been in love.”
Athos, who had been staring down at the table, suddenly drew himself up; his dull vacant glaze lighted up for an instant, then turned listless and glassy as before.
“True,” he admitted quietly, “true! I have never been in love.”
“Therefore my-dear-friend-with-the-heart-of-stone, I beg you to acknowledge that you are wrong to be so hard upon those of us who are tender-hearted.”
“A tender heart means a broken heart; tenderness spells despair.”
“What do you mean, Athos?”
“I mean that love is a lottery and the winning ticket brings but death. Believe me, you are very fortunate to be on the losing side, my dear D’Artagnan. And if I have any advice to give you it is this: always lose in the lottery of love!”
“She seemed to love me so dearly!”
“She seemed to, eh?”
“No, she did love me.”
“What an infant you are! No man ever lived but believed his mistress