The Three Musketeers (Translated by Richard Pevear) - Alexandre Dumas [118]
“What do you mean, imbecile?”
“I mean that when I came home, though I had the key to your apartment in my pocket and that key had never left me, I found a letter on the green tablecloth in your bedroom.”
“And where is that letter?”
“I left it where it was, Monsieur. It’s not natural for letters to come into people’s houses like that. If the window had still been open, or even half open, I wouldn’t say so; but no, everything was hermetically shut. Watch out, Monsieur, for there’s certainly some magic behind it.”
Meanwhile, the young man rushed into the bedroom and opened the letter. It was from Mme Bonacieux, and read as follows:
There are warm thanks to be given you and transmitted to you. Be at Saint-Cloud this evening at around ten o’clock, across from the pavilion at the corner of M. d’Estrées’s house.
C.B.
Reading this letter, d’Artagnan felt his heart dilate and contract in that sweet spasm which tortures and caresses the hearts of lovers.
It was the first such note he had ever received; it was the first rendezvous he had ever been granted. His heart, swollen with the drunkenness of joy, felt as though it was about to fail on the threshold of that earthly paradise known as love.
“Well, Monsieur?” said Planchet, who had seen his master blush and pale successively. “Well, didn’t I guess right that it’s some sort of wicked business?”
“You’re mistaken, Planchet,” replied d’Artagnan, “and as proof, here is an écu on which you can drink my health.”
“I thank Monsieur for the écu he has given me, and promise to follow his instructions exactly; but it’s still true that letters that get into locked houses like this…”
“Fall from heaven, my friend, fall from heaven.”
“So Monsieur is content?” asked Planchet.
“My dear Planchet, I am the happiest of men!”
“And may I profit from Monsieur’s happiness by going to bed?”
“Yes, go.”
“May all the blessings of heaven fall upon Monsieur, but it’s still true that that letter…”
And Planchet went off shaking his head with a doubtful air, which d’Artagnan’s liberality had not managed to efface entirely.
Left alone, d’Artagnan read and reread his note, then kissed and rekissed twenty times those lines written by his beautiful mistress’s hand. At last he went to bed, fell asleep, and dreamed golden dreams.
At seven in the morning, he woke up and called Planchet, who at the second call opened the door, his face still not properly cleansed of yesterday’s worries.
“Planchet,” d’Artagnan said to him, “I may be gone for the whole day, so you are free until seven o’clock in the evening; but at seven be ready with two horses.”
“So,” said Planchet, “it seems we’re going to have our hide punctured in various places again.”
“Take your musket and your pistols.”
“Well, what did I tell you!” cried Planchet. “I was sure of it—that cursed letter!”
“Cheer up, imbecile, it’s simply a little outing.”
“Oh, yes! Like our pleasure trip the other day, where it rained bullets and sprouted snares.”
“However, if you’re afraid, M. Planchet,” d’Artagnan picked up, “I’ll go without you. I’d rather travel alone than have a trembling companion.”
“Monsieur does me wrong,” said Planchet, “though it seems to me he has seen me at work.”
“Yes, but I thought you had used up all your courage at one go.”
“Monsieur will see when the time comes that I still have more, only I beg Monsieur not to waste it, if he wants me to have it for long.”
“Do you think you can spend a certain amount of it tonight?”
“I hope so.”
“Well, then, I’ll be counting on you!”
“I will be ready at the stated time; only I believe Monsieur has only one horse in the guards’ stable.”
“There may be only one at the moment, but this evening there will be four.”
“It seems we remounted our way to Paris?”
“Exactly,” said d’Artagnan.
And making Planchet a last admonitory gesture, he left. M. Bonacieux was at his door. D’Artagnan’s intention was to pass by without speaking to the worthy mercer, but the latter made so gentle and benign a bow that his tenant