The Three Musketeers (The Modern Library) - Alexandre Dumas [98]
“In that case you will never get beyond Bondy, I swear it on the faith of a Tréville.”
“How so, Monsieur?”
“You will be murdered en route.”
“Then I shall die in the attempt!”
“But your mission will not be accomplished.”
“True!”
“Believe me,” Monsieur de Tréville said earnestly, “in undertakings of this kind the chances are about four to one against. There should be four of you!”
“Well, Monsieur, three of your musketeers are dear friends of mine: Athos, P—”
“Yes, I know. Can you use them and pledge them to secrecy? You were on the point—”
“We four are as blood brothers, Monsieur. You need but tell them you trust me, they will take me at my word.”
“I can give each of them a two-week furlough, no more. Athos is bothered by his wound, let him go to the waters at Forges; Porthos and Aramis may well accompany the invalid. Their orders will serve to prove that I authorize the journey.”
“Monsieur is a hundred times too generous!”
“See them at once and arrange everything tonight. Oh, yes, I was forgetting about Monsieur des Essarts! Go file your request with him at once. If some Cardinalist spy is already at your heels, His Eminence knows you have visited me. You can justify this visit by reporting officially to Monsieur des Essarts.”
D’Artagnan made out his application; Monsieur de Tréville, receiving it, assured him that his furlough and those of his friends would be in their hands by two o’clock in the morning.
“May I ask you, Monsieur, to send mine in care of Athos?” D’Artagnan requested. “I think it highly unwise to go home.”
“Very good. Farewell and bon voyage!” Monsier de Tréville paused. “By the by, have you any money?”
D’Artagnan turned, tapping the Bonacieux bag which was in his pocket.
“Enough?”
“Three hundred pistoles.”
“Plenty! Enough to take you to the end of the world! Proceed, young man!”
As D’Artagnan bowed, Monsieur de Tréville offered his hand which D’Artagnan shook gratefully. Since his arrival in Paris, he had always found this great soldier a kindly, sincere and helpful friend.
His first visit was to Aramis, whom he had not called on since that evening on the bridge when he mistook him for Buckingham. The few times they had met in the interval, Aramis had seemed profoundly depressed.
Finding Aramis awake but gloomy and pensive, he inquired perfunctorily about this gloom and pensiveness. Aramis replied that his feeling rose from a commentary on Chapter XVIII of Saint Augustine’s Confessions.
“I have to translate it into Latin by next week,” Aramis said, “and it’s a thorny job!”
They continued their discussion of Saint Augustine of whom Aramis spoke at length. They discussed other matters of current interest. Suddenly there was a knock at the door; a lackey wearing the livery of Monsieur de Tréville loomed in the doorway.
“What is this?” Aramis asked.
“The leave of absence Monsieur requested.”
“I requested no leave of absence, my good man. There must be some mistake!”
“Hush, Aramis, and be thankful for small mercies,” D’Artagnan said royally. Then turning to the lackey: “As for you my friend, here is half a pistole for your pains. Pray convey to Monsieur de Tréville the sincere thanks of Monsieur Aramis. And so, away with you!”
“Do you mind telling me what all this means?” Aramis asked meekly after the lackey had bowed himself out.
“It means a fortnight’s leave,” D’Artagnan explained. “Fall in and follow me.”
“How can I leave Paris now without know—?”
“—without knowing what has become of her, eh?”
“Who?”
“The lady who was here . . . the lady of the embroidered handkerchief. . . .”
Aramis turned deathly pale:
“Who told you there was a lady here?”
“I saw her.”
“You know who she is?”
“I might venture a shrewd guess.”
“Look here, D’Artagnan, as long as you know so much, can you tell me what has happened to her?”
“I dare say she went back to Tours.”
“To Tours? Yes, that’s right. I realize you know her. But why did she leave town without telling me?”
“She was afraid of being arrested.”
“Why has she not written?”
“For fear of compromising you.”
“My dear D’Artagnan, here