The Three Musketeers (Translated by Richard Pevear) - Alexandre Dumas [253]
“In fact,” said d’Artagnan, “what you say makes great sense, Athos.”
“In that case, let there be no more question of what just happened, and let Aramis take up his cousin’s letter again where M. le cardinal interrupted it.”
Aramis took the letter from his pocket, the three friends moved close to him, and the three lackeys once more gathered around the demijohn.
“You had only read a line or two,” said d’Artagnan, “so start again from the beginning.”
“Gladly,” said Aramis.
Dear Cousin,
I believe I shall indeed make up my mind to leave for Stenay, where my sister has put our little servant into a Carmelite convent. The poor child is resigned to it. She knows she cannot live anywhere else without endangering the salvation of her soul. However, if our family affairs get settled as we wish, I believe she will run the risk of damning herself, and will return to those she misses, the more so as she knows that they still think of her. In the meantime, she is not too unhappy. All she desires is a letter from her intended. I know very well that these sorts of commodities are hard to get past the gates; but, after all, as I have proven to you, my dear cousin, I am not too maladroit, and I will take this commission upon myself. My sister thanks you for your kind and eternal remembrance. She had a moment of great concern; but now she is finally somewhat reassured, having sent her agent there so that nothing unforeseen would happen.
Good-bye, my dear cousin, give us your news as often as you can, that is, whenever you think it safe to do so. I embrace you.
Marie Michon
“Oh, what do I not owe you, Aramis?” cried d’Artagnan. “Dear Constance! So I finally have news of her—she’s alive, she’s safe in a convent, she’s in Stenay! Where do you place Stenay, Athos?”
“Why, a few leagues from the border. Once the siege is raised, we can go for a turn out there.”
“And that won’t be long, it’s to be hoped,” said Porthos, “for this morning they hanged a spy who declared that the Rochelois were down to their shoe tops. Supposing they eat the soles after eating the tops, I don’t see what they’ll have left then, unless they start eating each other.”
“Poor fools!” said Athos, emptying a glass of excellent Bordeaux, which, though at the time it did not have the reputation it has now, deserved it no less, “poor fools! As if the Catholic religion wasn’t the most advantageous and agreeable of religions! All the same,” he went on, after smacking his tongue against his palate, “they’re brave folk. But what the devil are you doing, Aramis?” Athos went on. “Are you putting that letter in your pocket?”
“Yes,” said d’Artagnan, “Athos is right, we must burn it—though who knows if M. le cardinal doesn’t have a secret for interrogating ashes?”
“He must have one,” said Athos.
“Then what are you going to do with that letter?” asked Porthos.
“Come here, Grimaud,” said Athos.
Grimaud stood up and obeyed.
“As punishment for having spoken without permission, my friend, you are going to eat this piece of paper. Then, to reward you for the service rendered, you will drink this glass of wine. Here’s the letter first: chew energetically.”
Grimaud smiled, and, his eyes fixed on the glass that Athos had just filled to the brim, tore up the paper and swallowed it.
“Bravo, Master Grimaud!” said Athos. “And now, take this. Good, I exempt you from saying thank you.”
Grimaud silently swallowed the glass of Bordeaux, but all the while this sweet occupation lasted, his eyes lifted to heaven spoke a language which,