The Three Musketeers (Translated by Richard Pevear) - Alexandre Dumas [53]
“I am not backing out, mordieu!” cried the bourgeois, swearing in order to work himself up. “Besides, on Bonacieux’s honor…”
“Your name is Bonacieux?” interrupted d’Artagnan.
“Yes, it is.”
“So you were saying: on Bonacieux’s honor! Forgive me for interrupting you, but it seemed to me that the name was not unknown to me.”
“That’s possible, Monsieur. I am your landlord.”
“Aha!” said d’Artagnan, half rising and bowing to him, “you are my landlord?”
“Yes, Monsieur, yes. And as it’s three months now that you’ve been with me, and, no doubt distracted by your great occupations, you have forgotten to pay me my rent—as, I say, I have not pestered you once, I thought you might show consideration for my delicate position.”
“But of course, my dear M. Bonacieux!” d’Artagnan picked up. “Believe me, I’m filled with gratitude for such fair dealing, and, as I’ve said, if I can help you somehow…”
“I believe you, Monsieur, I believe you, and as I was about to tell you, on Bonacieux’s honor, I trust you.”
“Then finish what you’ve begun telling me.”
The bourgeois drew a paper from his pocket and handed it to d’Artagnan.
“A letter!” cried the young man.
D’Artagnan opened it, and as the light was beginning to fade, he went over to the window. The bourgeois followed him.
“‘Do not look for your wife,’” d’Artagnan read. “‘She will be returned to you when there is no more need for her. If you take a single step to find her, you are lost.’”
“That’s straightforward enough,” d’Artagnan went on. “But, after all, it’s just a threat.”
“Yes, but this threat frightens me. I, Monsieur, am no swordsman at all, and I’m afraid of the Bastille.”
“Hm!” said d’Artagnan. “But I care no more for the Bastille than you do. If it’s only a question of swordplay, it’s not much.”
“However, Monsieur, I’ve been counting on you in this matter.”
“Oh?”
“Seeing you constantly surrounded by superb-looking musketeers, and recognizing that these musketeers were those of M. de Tréville, and consequently the cardinal’s enemies, I’ve been thinking that you and your friends, while rendering justice to our poor queen, would be delighted to do His Eminence a bad turn.”
“Unquestionably.”
“And then I’ve been thinking that, owing me three months rent, which I have never mentioned to you…”
“Yes, yes, you’ve already given me that reason, and I find it excellent.”
“Counting, what’s more, on never mentioning your future rent, as long as you do me the honor of staying with me…”
“Very good.”
“And added to that, if need be, counting on offering you fifty pistoles, if, against all probability, you find yourself in tight straits at the moment.”
“Wonderful! So you’re a rich man, my dear M. Bonacieux?”
“I’m comfortably off, Monsieur, that’s the word. I’ve put together something like two or three thousand écus of income in the mercery trade, and above all by investing certain sums in the last voyage of the famous navigator Jean Mocquet,49 so that, you can understand, Monsieur…Ah! but…” cried the bourgeois.
“What?” asked d’Artagnan.
“What’s this I see?”
“Where?”
“In the street, across from your windows, in that doorway: a man wrapped in a cloak.”
“It’s he!” d’Artagnan and the bourgeois cried out at once, each having recognized his man at the same time.
“Ah! this time,” cried d’Artagnan, leaping for his sword, “this time he won’t escape me!”
And, drawing his sword from the scabbard, he rushed out of the apartment.
On the stairs he ran into Athos and Porthos, who were coming to see him. They separated, and d’Artagnan passed between them like a shot.
“Ah! but where are you running like that?” the two musketeers called after him.
“The man from Meung!” replied d’Artagnan, and he disappeared.
D’Artagnan had more than once told his friends about his adventure with the unknown man, and of the appearance of the beautiful traveler to whom this man seemed to have entrusted some important missive.
Athos’s view had been that d’Artagnan had lost his letter in the scuffle. A gentleman, according to him—and from the portrait