Alexandre Dumas - The Three Musketeers

M. Bonancieux was in the greatest perplexity. Ought he to deny everything, or to confess? From a total denial, it might be inferred that he knew too much to admit; and, by a general confession, he might give evidence of his good faith.

He determined, therefore, to have no concealments.

“I suspect,” said he, “a tall, dark man, of lofty air, who has all the appearance of a man of rank. He followed us, I think, many times, when I went to fetch my wife from the gate of the Louvre.”

The commissary appeared somewhat disturbed.

“And his name?” said he.

“Oh! as to his name, I do not know it; but if I should meet him, I could recognise him amongst a thousand persons.”

The brow of the commissary grew dark.

“You could recognise him amongst a thousand, you say?” continued he.

“That is to say,” replied Bonancieux, who saw that he had made a false step, “that is to say—”

“You have said that you could recognise him,” said the commissary; “very well, that is enough for today; it is necessary, before we proceed any further, that some one should be informed that you know the person who has carried off your wife.”

“But I did not tell you that I knew him!” cried M. Bonancieux, in despair. “I told you, on the contrary—”

“Take away the prisoner!” exclaimed the commissary to the two guards.

“Where to?” asked the registrar.

“To a dungeon.”

“To which?”

“Oh! to the first that offers, provided it be secure,” answered the commissary, with an indifference which filled the breast of poor Bonancieux with horror and dismay.

“Alas! alas!” said he, “I am undone. My wife must have committed some frightful crime; and I am supposed to be an accomplice, and shall be punished with her. She must have said something—have confessed that I was her confidant. A woman is such a weak creature! A dungeon! The first that offers! that’s it. A night is soon passed; and then, tomorrow, to the wheel, to the gibbet! Oh! my God, my God, have pity on me!”

Without in the least attending to the lamentations of Master Bonancieux, that were of a kind to which they were tolerably well accustomed, the two guards took him by the arms, and led him away, while the commissary hastily wrote a letter, for which his officer waited.

Bonancieux did not close an eye; not because his dungeon was very uncomfortable, but because his anxiety was very great. He sat upon his stool the whole night, trembling at every noise; and when the first rays of light penetrated his chamber, Aurora herself appeared to him to be dressed in funereal array.

Suddenly he heard the bolts withdrawn, and gave a terrible start. He believed that they were coming to conduct him to the scaffold; and, therefore, when he saw that it was only the commissary and his attendant, he was almost ready to embrace them.

“Your affair has become sadly complicated since last evening, my fine fellow,” said the commissary. “I advise you to tell the whole truth, for your repentance alone can mitigate the anger of the cardinal.”

“But I am ready to tell everything,” said Bonancieux; “everything, at least, that I know; question me, I beseech you!”

“In the first place, where is your wife?”

“I have just told you that some one has carried her off.”

“Yes, but since five o’clock yesterday evening, thanks to you, she has escaped.”

“My wife escaped!” cried Bonancieux; “oh! the wretch! Sir, if she has escaped, I assure you it is not my fault!”

“What were you doing, then, in the apartment of your neighbour, M. d’Artagnan, with whom you had a long conference in the course of the day?”

“Ah, yes, Mr. Commissary, yes, that is true; and I confess I was wrong in that; yes, I was in M. d’Artagnan’s apartments.”

“And why?”

“To entreat him to assist me in finding my wife. I thought I had a right to reclaim her. I was mistaken, it appears, and I humbly beg your pardon.”

“And what answer did M. d’Artagnan give?”

“M. d’Artagnan promised me his assistance; but I soon perceived that he betrayed me.”

“You would mislead justice! M. d’Artagnan made an agreement with you; and in virtue of that agreement, he put to flight the officers who had arrested your wife, and has now secreted her from all our researches.”

“M. d’Artagnan has hidden away my wife? Alas! what do you tell me?”

“Fortunately, M d’Artagnan is in our power, and you shall be confronted with him.”

“Ah, faith! I desire nothing better,” cried M. Bonancieux. “I shall not be sorry to see the face of an acquaintance.”

“Bring in M. d’Artagnan,” said the commissary to the two guards.

The guards brought in Athos.

“M. d’Artagnan,” said the commissary, addressing Athos, “declare what passed between you and that other gentleman.”

“But,” cried M. Bonancieux, “that is not M. d’Artagnan that you show me there.”

“What! not M. d’Artagnan?” cried the commissary.

“By no means,” answered Bonancieux.

“What is the gentleman’s name?” demanded the commissary.

“I cannot tell you; I don’t know him!” replied Bonancieux.

“What! you do not know him?”

“No.”

“You have never set eyes on him?”

“Yes; but I do not know his name.”

“Your name?” demanded the commissary of Athos.

“Athos!” answered the musketeer.

“But that is not the name of a man; it is the name of a mountain!” cried the unfortunate commissary, who began to get confused.

“It is my name,” calmly replied Athos.

“But you said your name was d’Artagnan.”

“I said so?”

“Yes, you!”

“The fact is, that they said to me—you are M. d’Artagnan. I replied—do you think so? My guards said they were sure of it. I did not wish to contradict them; besides, I might be mistaken.”

“Sir! you mock the majesty of justice.”

“Not at all,” calmly replied Athos.

“You are M. d’Artagnan?”

“You see that you still tell me so.”

“But,” cried M. Bonancieux, “I tell you, Mr. Commissary, that there is not the smallest doubt. M. d’Artagnan is my lodger, and, consequently, as he does not pay his rent, I know him only too well. M. d’Artagnan is a young man of nineteen or twenty years of age, at most, and this gentleman is at least thirty. M. d’Artagnan is in the guards of M. des Essarts, and this gentleman is in the company of M. de Treville’s musketeers: observe the uniform.”

“By heavens! it is true!” muttered the commissary. “It is true, by God!”

At this instant the door was quickly opened, and one of the turnkeys of the Bastile introduced a messenger, who gave the commissary a letter.

“Oh! the wretch!” exclaimed the commissary.

“What? of whom do you speak? It is not of my wife, I hope.”

“On the contrary, it is of her. Your affairs are in a nice state.”

“Do me the pleasure,” said the exasperated mercer, “to tell me, sir, how my affairs can be made worse by what my wife does whilst I am in prison?”

“Because what she does is the consequence of an infernal plan arranged between you!”

“I swear to you, Mr. Commissary, that you are in the most profound error; that I know nothing in the world of my wife’s actions; that I am completely ignorant of what she has done; and that, if she has committed follies, I renounce her, I give her the lie, and I curse her.”

“And now,” said Athos, “if you have no further business with me, dismiss me. Your M. Bonancieux is very tiresome.”

“Take the prisoners back to their dungeons,” said the commissary, pointing to Athos and Bonancieux, “and guard them more strictly than ever.”