The Three Musketeers (Translated by Richard Pevear) - Alexandre Dumas [20]
“These men are all sure to be imprisoned and hanged,” d’Artagnan thought in terror, “and I undoubtedly with them, for once I’ve heard and understood them, I’ll be held as their accomplice. What would my good father say, who so strongly enjoined respect for the cardinal upon me, if he knew I was in the society of such pagans?”
And so, as you will have guessed without my saying it, d’Artagnan did not venture to involve himself in the conversation; he only looked all eyes and listened all ears, avidly straining his five senses so as to miss nothing, and despite his trust in the paternal injunctions, he felt himself brought by his tastes and led by his instincts to praise rather than blame the unheard-of things that were going on there.
However, as he was a total stranger to the crowd of M. de Tréville’s courtiers, and it was the first time he had been glimpsed in this place, someone came to ask him what he wanted. In reponse to this request, d’Artagnan very modestly gave his name, bolstered himself with the title of compatriot, and entreated the valet who had come to ask him this question to request a moment’s audience for him with M. de Tréville, a request which the latter promised in a protective tone to transmit in the proper time and place.
D’Artagnan, slightly recovered from his initial surprise, thus had leisure for a brief study of costumes and physiognomies.
At the center of the most animated group was a tall musketeer, of haughty appearance and of a peculiarity of dress that attracted general attention to him. He was not, for the moment, wearing a uniform tabard, which in any case was not absolutely obligatory in that time of lesser freedom but greater independence, but a sky blue jerkin, a bit faded and frayed, and over this garment a magnificent baldric, embroidered in gold, which glittered like the sparkles that scatter over the water in bright sunlight. A long cloak of crimson velvet fell gracefully from his shoulders, revealing only the front of the splendid baldric, from which hung a gigantic rapier.
This musketeer had just come off guard duty that same moment, complained of having a head cold, and coughed affectedly from time to time. That was why he had taken the cloak, as he said to those around him, and while he spoke from his great height, disdainfully twirling his mustache, everyone enthusiastically admired the embroidered baldric, and d’Artagnan more than anyone.
“What can you do,” said the musketeer, “it’s the coming fashion; it’s an extravagance, I know very well, but it’s the fashion. Besides, a man has to use his inheritance for something.”
“Ah, Porthos!” cried one of those present, “don’t try to make us believe that baldric came to you by paternal generosity: it was given to you by the veiled lady I met you with the other Sunday near the porte Saint-Honoré.”
“No, on my honor and faith as a gentleman, I bought it myself, and out of my own pocket,” replied the one who had just been called by the name of Porthos.
“Yes,” said another musketeer, “just as I bought myself this new purse with what my mistress put in the old one.”
“It’s true,” said Porthos, “and the proof is that I paid twelve pistoles for it.”
The admiration increased, though the doubt persisted.
“Isn’t that so, Aramis?” said Porthos, turning to another musketeer.
This other musketeer formed a perfect contrast with the one who questioned him and who had just called him by the name of Aramis: he was a young man of twenty-two or twenty-three at most, with a naive and sweet expression, dark and gentle eyes, and cheeks as pink and downy as an autumn peach; his thin mustache traced a perfectly straight line on his upper lip; his hands seemed to fear being lowered, lest their veins swell, and from time to time he pinched the tips of his ears to maintain their tender and transparent