The Three Musketeers (Translated by Richard Pevear) - Alexandre Dumas [26]
And he recounted the whole scene at Meung, depicting the unknown gentleman in the minutest detail, and all of it with a warmth, a truthfulness that charmed M. de Tréville.
“That’s a strange thing,” the latter said, pondering. “So you mentioned my name aloud?”
“Yes, Monsieur, I undoubtedly committed that imprudence; but what do you want, a name like yours was to serve me as a shield on the way: you may judge how often I took cover behind it!”
Flattery was quite an acceptable thing then, and M. de Tréville loved incense as much as any king or cardinal. So he could not help smiling with visible satisfaction, but his smile soon vanished, and he returned to the adventure in Meung.
“Tell me,” he went on, “did this gentleman have a slight scar on his temple?”
“Yes, the kind left by the graze of a bullet.”
“Was he a fine-looking man?”
“Yes.”
“Tall?”
“Yes.”
“Pale-skinned and brown-haired?”
“Yes, yes, that’s right. How is it, Monsieur, that you know this man? Ah! if ever I find him again, and I will find him, I swear to you, even in hell…”
“He was waiting for a woman?” Tréville went on.
“At least he left after talking for a moment with the woman he was waiting for.”
“You wouldn’t know what the subject of their conversation was?”
“He gave her a box, told her the box contained her instructions, and advised her not to open it until she got to London.”
“The woman was English?”
“He called her ‘Milady.’”
“It’s he,” murmured Tréville, “it’s he! I thought he was still in Brussels.”
“Oh, Monsieur, if you know this man,” cried d’Artagnan, “tell me who he is and where he is, and then I won’t hold you to anything else, not even your promise to take me into the musketeers; for before all else I want to avenge myself!”
“Don’t even try it, young man,” cried Tréville. “On the contrary, if you see him coming down one side of the street, cross to the other! Don’t hurl yourself against such a rock: he’ll smash you like a glass.”
“All the same,” said d’Artagnan, “if I ever find him again…”
“Meanwhile,” Tréville picked up, “don’t go looking for him, if I have one piece of advice to give you.”
Tréville stopped all at once, struck by a sudden suspicion. The great hatred that the young traveler made such a display of for this man who, unlikely as it was, had robbed him of his father’s letter—did this hatred not conceal some perfidy? Had this young man not been sent by His Eminence? Had he not come to set some trap for him? Was this would-be d’Artagnan not an emissary from the cardinal whom they sought to introduce into his house, and whom they had placed close to him in order to betray his confidence and to ruin him afterwards, as had been done a thousand times before? He looked at d’Artagnan still more fixedly this second time than he had the first. He was not much reassured by the sight of that physiognomy sparkling with sly wit and affected humility.
“I know very well he’s a Gascon,” he thought, “but he can just as well be a Gascon for the cardinal as for me. Come, let’s test him.”
“My friend,” he said to him slowly, “I would like, as for the son of my old friend—for I take the story of that lost letter to be true—I would like, I say, in order to make up for the coolness you noticed at first in my reception, to reveal to you the secrets of our policy. The king and the cardinal are the best of friends; their apparent disputes are meant only to deceive fools. I do not intend that a compatriot, a fine cavalier, a brave lad, made for advancement, should be the dupe of all this trumpery and run his head into the wall like a ninny, in the wake of so many others who have perished from it. Understand well that I am devoted to these two all-powerful masters, and that my serious efforts will never have any other end than service to the king and to M. le cardinal, one of the most illustrious geniuses France has ever produced. Now, young man, rule yourself by that, and if you have, either from your family, or through relations, or even by instinct, any of those hostile feelings against