Alexandre Dumas - The Three Musketeers

Treville had seized on the weak point in his master’s character; and to this knowledge he owed the long and constant favour of a king who has not left behind him the reputation of having been constant in his friendships. He paraded his musketeers before the cardinal Armand Duplessis with an air of insolence which made the gray moustache of his eminence curl with anger. Treville also thoroughly understood the war of that period, when, if you lived not at the expense of the enemy, you lived at that of your countrymen. His soldiers formed a legion of very devils, under no discipline but his own. Swaggering bullies, given to wine, the king’s musketeers, or rather M. de Treville’s, spread themselves through the taverns, the public walks, and the theatres, talking loud, curling their moustaches, jingling their swords, hustling the guards of the cardinal when they met them, indulging, in the open street, in a thousand jokes; sometimes killed, but then certain of being lamented and avenged; sometimes killing, but then quite certain not to languish in prison, since M. de Treville was always at hand to procure their pardon and release. Therefore M. de Treville was lauded in every tone, sung of in every key, by these men, who adored him; yet, hang-dogs as they were, they trembled before him as scholars before their master, obedient to a word, and ready to meet death to wipe away any reproach. M. de Treville had used this powerful lever, first, for the king and his friends, and next, for himself and his own friends. The captain of the musketeers was, therefore, admired, feared, and loved, which state constitutes the apogee of human affairs.

Louis XIV. absorbed all the lesser stars of his court, by his vast brilliancy; but his father, “ Sol pluribus impar ,” imparted his personal splendour to many of his favourites—his individual valour to each of his courtiers. Besides the king’s levee, and that of the cardinal, there were then at Paris at least two hundred smaller ones, fairly exclusive; and amongst these two hundred smaller levees, that of M. de Treville was one of those most frequented. From six o’clock in the morning during summer, and eight in the winter, the courtyard of his hotel, in the Rue du Vieux Colombier, resembled a camp. From fifty to sixty musketeers, who appeared to relieve each other, and to present a number always imposing, were stalking about incessantly, armed to the teeth, and ready for anything. From one end to the other of one of those long staircases, on whose space our modern civilisation would build an entire mansion, ascended and descended those petitioners who sought favours; with provincial gentlemen, eager to be enrolled; and liveried lacqueys of every colour, in the act of delivering messages from their masters to M. de Treville. In the antechamber, on long circular benches, reclined the elite , that is, such of them as had assembled; a continual buzzing prevailed from morning till night; whilst M. de Treville, in his cabinet adjoining the antechamber, received visits, listened to complaints, gave his orders, and, like the king in his balcony at the Louvre, had only to place himself at his window to review his men and their arms.

On the day when d’Artagnan presented himself, the assembly was very imposing, especially to a provincial just arrived in Paris. It is true, this provincial was a Gascon, and at this period more especially, d’Artagnan’s countrymen had the reputation of not being easily intimidated. In fact, as soon as any one had passed the threshold of the massive door, studded with long square nails, he found himself in the midst of a troop of swordsmen, who were cruising about the court, talking, quarrelling, and jesting with each other. To clear a path through these eddies, it was necessary to be an officer, a man of rank, or a pretty woman. It was, therefore, in the midst of this crowd and disorder that our youth, holding his long rapier against his slender legs, and the rim of his beaver in his hand, advanced with palpitating heart, yet with that sort of half smile of provincial embarrassment which wishes to create a good impression. When he had passed one group, he breathed more freely; but he perceived that they turned to look at him, and d’Artagnan, who to that day had invariably entertained a pretty good opinion of himself, for the first time in his life thought himself ridiculous. When he had reached the staircase it was still worse; on the first step were four musketeers, who amused themselves in the following manner, whilst ten or a dozen of their companions waited on the landing-place till it was their turn to have a share in the game. One of them on a higher step, with a naked sword in his hand, prevented, or endeavoured to prevent, the other three from mounting the stairs; whilst these three skirmished with him very actively with their swords. D’Artagnan at first took these swords for foils, and thought they were buttoned ; but he soon found, by certain scratches, that each weapon was as sharp as possible, and at each of these scratches, not only the spectators, but the actors themselves, laughed most heartily. The one who held the higher step at that time, kept his opponents at bay in a dexterous manner. A circle was formed round him, the condition of the game being, that at every hit, he who was struck should relinquish the pastime, and surrender his turn of reception by M. de Treville to the one who had touched him. In five minutes three were grazed, one on the hand, one on the chin, and another on the ear, by this defender of the staircase, who was himself untouched—a proof of his skill which, according to the rules of the game, entitled him to three turns of favour. This sport surprised our young traveller, although he did not wish it to appear that he was astonished. He had seen in his own province (that province where, moreover, the fiery passions are so promptly roused) a good many provocatives to duels, and yet the gasconade of these four players appeared much stronger than any he had heard of even in Gascony. He fancied he was transported into that famous country of giants where Gulliver afterwards went, and was so much frightened. And yet he had not reached the end: the landing-place and antechamber still remained. On the landing-place they did not fight, but recounted histories of the fair sex; and in the antechamber, tales of the court. On the landing-place d’Artagnan blushed; in the antechamber he shuddered. But if his good manners were shocked on the landing-place, his respect for the cardinal was scandalised in the antechamber. There, to his great astonishment, he heard the policy which made all Europe tremble, openly criticised, as well as the private life of the cardinal, which so many powerful men had been punished for attempting to scrutinise. That great man, whom d’Artagnan’s father had so deeply reverenced, M. de Treville and his men made their butt, deriding his bandy legs and crooked back. Some sang carols on Madame d’Aiguillon, his mistress, and Madame de Combalet, his niece; whilst others planned adventures against the pages and guards of the cardinal duke himself. All these things appeared to d’Artagnan monstrous impossibilities. Nevertheless, when the name of the king accidentally slipped out in the midst of these jokes on the cardinal, a sort of momentary gag stopped all their jeering mouths; they looked around with hesitation, and seemed to doubt the discretion of the wall of M. de Treville’s cabinet. But some allusion soon brought back the conversation to his eminence. The wit was of the most brilliant kind, and none of his actions was uncommented upon. “Verily,” thought d’Artagnan with terror, “these gentry will soon be put into the Bastile and hanged. Doubtless, I shall accompany them, for having heard all they have said. I shall, without doubt, be taken for an accomplice. What would my father say—he who enjoined me so strongly to respect the cardinal—if he knew that I was in the company of such reprobates?”