seven had sounded. The carriage had been twenty minutes behind the time appointed. D’Artagnan’s friends reminded him that he had a visit to pay, but at the same time bade him observe that there was yet time to retract.
But d’Artagnan was at the same time impetuous and curious. He had made up his mind that he would go to the Palais-Cardinal, and that he would learn what his Eminence had to say to him. Nothing could turn him from his purpose.
They reached the Rue St. Honore, and in the Place du Palais-Cardinal they found the twelve invited Musketeers, walking about in expectation of their comrades. There only they explained to them the matter in hand.
D’Artagnan was well known among the honorable corps of the king’s Musketeers, in which it was known he would one day take his place; he was considered beforehand as a comrade. It resulted from these antecedents that everyone entered heartily into the purpose for which they met; besides, it would not be unlikely that they would have an opportunity of playing either the cardinal or his people an ill turn, and for such expeditions these worthy gentlemen were always ready.
Athos divided them into three groups, assumed the command of one, gave the second to Aramis, and the third to Porthos; and then each group went and took their watch near an entrance.
D’Artagnan, on his part, entered boldly at the principal gate.
Although he felt himself ably supported, the young man was not without a little uneasiness as he ascended the great staircase, step by step. His conduct toward Milady bore a strong resemblance to treachery, and he was very suspicious of the political relations which existed between that woman and the cardinal. Still further, de Wardes, whom he had treated so ill, was one of the tools of his Eminence; and d’Artagnan knew that while his Eminence was terrible to his enemies, he was strongly attached to his friends.
“If de Wardes has related all our affair to the cardinal, which is not to be doubted, and if he has recognized me, as is probable, I may consider myself almost as a condemned man,” said d’Artagnan, shaking his head. “But why has he waited till now? That’s all plain enough. Milady has laid her complaints against me with that hypocritical grief which renders her so interesting, and this last offense has made the cup overflow.”
“Fortunately,” added he, “my good friends are down yonder, and they will not allow me to be carried away without a struggle. Nevertheless, Monsieur de Treville’s company of Musketeers alone cannot maintain a war against the cardinal, who disposes of the forces of all France, and before whom the queen is without power and the king without will. D’Artagnan, my friend, you are brave, you are prudent, you have excellent qualities; but the women will ruin you!”
He came to this melancholy conclusion as he entered the antechamber. He placed his letter in the hands of the usher on duty, who led him into the waiting room and passed on into the interior of the palace.
In this waiting room were five or six of the cardinals Guards, who recognized d’Artagnan, and knowing that it was he who had wounded Jussac, they looked upon him with a smile of singular meaning.
This smile appeared to d’Artagnan to be of bad augury. Only, as our Gascon was not easily intimidated—or rather, thanks to a great pride natural to the men of his country, he did not allow one easily to see what was passing in his mind when that which was passing at all resembled fear—he placed himself haughtily in front of Messieurs the Guards, and waited with his hand on his hip, in an attitude by no means deficient in majesty.
The usher returned and made a sign to d’Artagnan to follow him. It appeared to the young man that the Guards, on seeing him depart, chuckled among themselves.
He traversed a corridor, crossed a grand saloon, entered a library, and found himself in the presence of a man seated at a desk and writing.
The usher introduced him, and retired without speaking a word. D’Artagnan remained standing and examined this man.
D’Artagnan at first believed that he had to do with some judge examining his papers; but he perceived that the man at the desk wrote, or rather corrected, lines of unequal length, scanning the words on his fingers. He saw then that he was with a poet. At the end of an instant the poet closed his manuscript, upon the cover of which was written “Mirame, a Tragedy in Five Acts,” and raised his head.
D’Artagnan recognized the cardinal.
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THE CARDINAL LEANED his elbow on his manuscript, his cheek upon his hand, and looked intently at the young man for a moment. No one had a more searching eye than the Cardinal de Richelieu, and d’Artagnan felt this glance run through his veins like a fever.
He however kept a good countenance, holding his hat in his hand and awaiting the good pleasure of his Eminence, without too much assurance, but also without too much humility.
“Monsieur,” said the cardinal, “are you a d’Artagnan from Bearn?”
“Yes, monseigneur,” replied the young man.
“There are several branches of the d’Artagnans at Tarbes and in its environs,” said the cardinal; “to which do you belong?”
“I am the son of him who served in the Religious Wars under the great King Henry, the father of his gracious Majesty.”
“That is well. It is you who set out seven or eight months ago from your country to seek your fortune in the capital?”
“Yes, monseigneur.”
“You came through Meung, where something befell you. I don’t very well know what, but still something.”
“Monseigneur,” said d’Artagnan, “this was what happened to me—”
“Never mind, never mind!” resumed the cardinal, with a smile which indicated that he knew the story as well as he who wished to relate it. “You were recommended to Monsieur de Treville, were you not?”
“Yes, monseigneur; but in that unfortunate affair at Meung—”
“The letter was lost,” replied his Eminence; “yes, I know that. But Monsieur de Treville is a skilled physiognomist, who knows men at first sight; and he placed you in the company of his brother-in-law, Monsieur Dessessart, leaving you to hope that one day or other you should enter the Musketeers.”
“Monseigneur is correctly informed,” said d’Artagnan.
“Since that time many things have happened to you. You were walking one day behind the Chartreux, when it would have been better if you had been elsewhere. Then you took with your friends a journey to the waters of Forges; they stopped on the road, but you continued yours. That is all very simple: you had business in England.”
“Monseigneur,” said d’Artagnan, quite confused, “I went—”
“Hunting at Windsor, or elsewhere—that concerns nobody. I know, because it is my office to know everything. On your return you were received by an august personage,
