The Three Musketeers (The Modern Library) - Alexandre Dumas [152]
“No man save you, Athos, who never had a mistress.”
“True, true!” Athos repeated after a moment’s silence. “I never had a mistress.” He cleared his throat. “Ah, well, let’s drink!”
“Philosopher as you are, remote from our human sentimentalities, pray instruct and sustain me. I want to know why love’s course never runs smoothly. And above all, I crave consolation.”
“Consolation for what?”
“For my deep misfortune, Athos.”
“Your unhappiness is laughable!” Athos shrugged his shoulders.
“Not to me, Athos!”
“I dare say not.” Athos looked up at D’Artagnan. “I wonder what you would say if I were to tell you a real love story?”
“One which happened to you?”
“Or to a friend of mine, ay. What matter?”
“Tell me your story, Athos, please.”
“Let us drink instead. Drinking is better than story-telling.”
“They are not mutually exclusive. Drink up and talk away, Athos!”
“Right! Not a bad idea!” Athos drained his glass then refilled it. “The two pastimes go together very well.”
“Fire away then, Athos, I am all attention.”
Athos collected himself and as he did so D’Artagnan perceived that he grew pale apace. He was at that stage of intoxication where your vulgar topers fall asleep, but he, of course, remained upright and awake and seemed to be dreaming aloud. There was something frightening in this somnambulism of drunkenness.
“You insist on hearing my story?”
“I do indeed, Athos, pray go ahead!”
“Very well then, you shall have your wish. I shall tell you everything exactly as it happened. Here goes!” Drawing a deep breath, he launched into his narrative:
“One of my friends,” he began, then with a melancholy smile he interrupted his story: “Please to observe this happened to one of my friends not to me—” and, resuming: “One of my friends, a count in my native province—Berry, that is—a man as nobly born as a Dandolo or a Montmorency, once fell in love. He was twenty-five, the girl sixteen and beautiful beyond description. There was an ardor and a spirit in her which, piercing through the ingenuousness of her age, stamped her more of a poet than a woman. She was not of the type that pleases and attracts, she intoxicated and enraptured any man who came within a mile of her. She lived in a small straggling township with her brother who was a curé. Nobody knew where they came from but seeing how beautiful she was and how pious her brother, nobody ever inquired. Rumor had it that they were well born. My friend, the hero of this tale, was the seigneur of the country. He might easily have seduced her or if he preferred taken her by force, for his power was unlimited. Who, indeed, would have come to the help of two strangers, two persons utterly unknown, come from God knows where? Unfortunately he was an honorable man; he married her, fool, idiot, imbecile that he was!”
“How so, if he loved her?”
“Patience, D’Artagnan and you shall see!” Athos gulped down the contents of half his glass. “My friend took her to his château and made her the first lady of the province and, to do her justice, she acquitted herself brilliantly of her rank.”
“What happened then?” D’Artagnan asked.
“One day my friend was out hunting in the woods with his wife.” Athos lowered his voice and spoke very rapidly. “She fell from her horse and fainted. The Count rushed to help her and, as she had difficulty in breathing, he slashed her bodice with his dagger, baring her throat and shoulders.” Suddenly Athos burst into shrill, forced peals of laughter. “And guess what he found on her right shoulder?” he concluded.
“How could I know? Tell me, if you will.”
“A fleur-de-lis,” said Athos, “yes, a fleur-de-lis. She had been branded by the Royal Executioner.” And Athos drained his glass at one gulp.
“How horrible!” cried D’Artagnan, “I can’t believe it!”
“Gospel truth, I swear it. That angel my friend adored was a fiend; he discovered not only that she was a thief but that she had stolen the sacred vessels from a church.”
“And what did your friend do?”
“He was a great nobleman,