The Three Musketeers (Translated by Richard Pevear) - Alexandre Dumas [146]
D’Artagnan, whose inquisitive and penetrating mind we know, had so far been unable, interested as he was in satisfying his curiosity on the subject, to assign any cause to this dejection, or to keep track of its occurrences. Athos never received letters; Athos never took any step that was not known to all his friends.
It could not be said that this sadness came from wine, for, on the contrary, he drank only to combat the sadness, which this remedy, as we have said, made gloomier still. This excess of black bile could not be attributed to gambling, for, contrary to Porthos, who accompanied all the variations of luck with his songs or curses, Athos remained as impassive when he won as when he lost. In the circle of musketeers, he had been seen to win three thousand pistoles in one evening, lose them down to his gold-embroidered belt for gala days, and win it all back, plus a hundred louis more, without raising or lowering his handsome black eyebrow by half a line, without his hands losing their pearly hue, without his conversation, which was pleasant that evening, ceasing to be pleasant and calm.
Nor was it, as with our English neighbors, an atmospheric influence that clouded his face, for this sadness generally became more intense towards the fine days of the year: June and July were the terrible months for Athos.
The present caused him no grief; he shrugged his shoulders when anyone spoke to him of the future; his secret was therefore in the past, as had been vaguely mentioned to d’Artagnan.
The mysterious taint that spread over his whole being made still more interesting this man whose eyes and lips, even in the most complete drunkenness, had never revealed anything, however skillful the questions that were put to him.
“Ah, well,” thought d’Artagnan, “poor Athos may be dead right now, and it will be my fault, for it was I who dragged him into this affair, of which he did not know the origin, of which he will not know the outcome, and from which he could not profit in any way.”
“Not to mention, Monsieur,” Planchet replied, “that we probably owe him our lives. Remember how he shouted: ‘Get away, d’Artagnan, it’s a trap!’ And after he fired his two pistols, what a terrible racket he made with his sword! You’d have thought it was twenty men, or rather twenty raging devils!”
These words redoubled d’Artagnan’s fervor, and he urged on his horse, which, having no need of urging, carried his rider along at a gallop.
Towards eleven in the morning they caught sight of Amiens; at half-past eleven, they were at the gate of the cursed inn.
D’Artagnan had often meditated that sort of sweet revenge on the perfidious host that is consoling, if only in anticipation. He thus entered the hostelry with his hat pulled down over his eyes, his left hand on the hilt of his sword, and his riding crop whistling in his right hand.
“Do you recognize me?” he said to the host, who came forward to greet him.
“I do not have that honor, Monseigneur,” replied the latter, his eyes still more dazzled by the splendid state in which d’Artagnan presented himself.
“Ah, so you don’t know me?”
“No, Monseigneur.”
“Well, then, two words will restore your memory. What have you done with that gentleman against whom you had the audacity to bring an accusation of counterfeiting two weeks ago?”
The host paled, for d’Artagnan had taken the most threatening attitude, and Planchet had modeled himself on his master.
“Ah, Monseigneur, don’t speak of him to me!” cried the host in his most tearful voice. “Ah, Lord, how I’ve paid for that mistake! Ah, wretch that I am!”
“I ask you, what has become of that gentleman?”
“Deign to listen to me, Monseigneur, and be merciful. Come, sit down, I beg you!”
D’Artagnan, mute with wrath and anxiety, sat down, threatening as a judge. Planchet leaned back proudly in his chair.
“Here is the story, Monseigneur,” the host went on, all atremble, “for now I recognize you. It was you who left when