“I know I believe the drinking,” she said. “But I don’t know how much more. You don’t understand my fears,” she said, and touched her eyes with the handkerchief. “I know you’re out there, free, and so much younger than I, and I know how all the ladies of nobility make it a point of picking out the most handsome of the musketeers. And I am not noble-born, not even of very good family. All I have is my gentle upbringing, my familiarity with the Queen and my beauty, such as it is, and sure to fade fast, as much as you worry me.”
D’Artagnan said, “To me you are more beautiful than any princess.”
It is almost sure his honeyed words and that charm of manner for which his countrymen were known would have carried the day. It would, that is, had not the fair lamenter’s eyes fallen upon the square of lace in her hand. And then she stared at it, in something like horror, dropped it on the ground, and stomped on it with the tip of her dainty, slippered foot. “As beautiful as any princess, am I? Am I as beautiful as any duchess, also?”
Bewildered, D’Artagnan said, and meant it, “To me you are the most beautiful woman in the entire world.”
She sneered at him. She actually curled her lip in disdain and said, “Oh, I am done with you. I know you Gascons and your love of words, often empty of all meaning. How long have you been sleeping with the ladies of the court? Oh, answer me not. Probably before you met me, and probably it will go on long after you’ve ceased to care for me. I will not speak to you anymore. I will not…” She shook her head. “I married Monsieur Bonacieux at the behest of my family. Until I met you, Monsieur D’Artagnan, my heart was as innocent and untouched as that of a young girl in a convent. I could have lived my whole life long without knowing love. But you woke me to that emotion, and now it turns out it was all a lie.” She stomped again on the square of lace on the ground, then reached into her own sleeve and threw a key at his feet. “I shall not be needing the access to your lodgings that you so kindly bestowed on me. It was only a matter of time before I detected you in some other woman’s arms.”
And D’Artagnan, who in his whole life had only one lover, and that lover Constance Bonacieux, stared at her in horror, quite convinced his beloved had taken leave of her senses. Such words as came to his mind-mostly her name and protests of his innocence, he knew too well than to say. Indeed, he didn’t recover his voice till she had left and until, reaching down, he retrieved the maltreated handkerchief and saw that it was the one he’d meant to return to Aramis.
“The devil,” he said to himself. He had suspected it all along, but the thing was that Constance had never given him a chance to defend himself. And that she could believe in his perfidy like that, without need of proof, without a single doubt. That cut into the center of his young heart. “Perhaps Athos is right,” he told himself. “Perhaps all women are the devil.”
In this sullen mood, he left the courtyard, and went through the door barely saying a word of thanks to De Jacinthe. In fact, his rejection of all of the fair sex lasted exactly until he walked less than twenty steps from the palace entrance, towards his lodging, and saw a beautiful woman cowering against the wall, while two rough-looking men, with knives, tried to convince her to come with them.
“You’ll come with us,” one of the men said. “And there will be no debate. You are too tasty a morsel to escape us.”
The woman was indeed a tasty morsel, D’Artagnan thought, as he rushed to her rescue. She had hair so blond and so shiny that it might as well be pure moonlight. It was braided simply down her back, over a pale grey cloak edged with some sort of fur. Her features were as beautiful as her hair or her attire, something that didn’t seem quite real. Oval, perfect face, huge grey eyes, that matched her cloak, a straight nose, and lips so full and promising that they quite cast Constance ’s into shade. In fact, while Constance was beautiful, this woman was stunning.
His sword out of its sheath, D’Artagnan rushed in, and-in a mood of reckless chivalry-charged the two ruffians. “Leave the lady be,” he said. “Or face me.”
Clearly his demeanor was more fearful than he’d thought, for they didn’t even wait for him to come near, but instead took to their heels. D’Artagnan, somewhat bewildered by so easy a rescue, reasoned that perhaps they were, out of reason, afraid of guards. Or perhaps they’d mistaken his uniform for that of a musketeer.
He now found his hands taken in both of the cool, soft hands of the woman, who was as beautiful as an angel. “Oh, my hero,” she said. “You’ve saved a foreigner from a fate worse than death.”
Her accent, though present, didn’t so much sound foreign as like the accent of someone who’d spent a long time abroad. But then, D’Artagnan was quite willing to understand he knew nothing of accents.
He did however know of beauty, and this beautiful woman was curtseying to him. He bowed in return, removing his hat. “Henri D’Artagnan, madam,” he said. “At your service.”
She smiled. “I am Lady de Winter,” she said. “And quite a stranger and friendless in Paris. I wonder,” she said, “if you’d do me the honor of dining with me tonight?”
Before D’Artagnan had fully recovered, he found himself in possession of the beautiful woman’s address and the time to present himself at her door. And standing there, in the full sun of morning, he thought that if Constance was going to accuse him of dallying with well-born ladies, by the Mass, he was about to give substance to her accusations.
The Importance of Private Correspondence; No Gainsaying the Count
PORTHOS woke up with repeated knocking outside the door. Opening his eyes, he saw that he was in Athos’s room, though he had slipped to the floor. Athos was still asleep on the bed, though D’Artagnan was nowhere to be seen. And there was a repeated, insistent knocking outside the door.
His first attempt at a reply having come out as a grunt, Porthos cleared his throat and said, “Yes?”
The door opened and Grimaud’s worried face peeked into the room. “Monsieur Porthos,” he said, with a worried look at his master on the bed. “There is a letter come for Monsieur D’Artagnan.”
“Well, then give it to him,” Porthos said, speaking gruffly. On the bed, Athos stirred. Grimaud looked worried. Porthos, following his glance, saw Athos sit up suddenly and pull out his sword in the same moment.
Grimaud said, “You did not remove his sword,” and then dove for cover behind the chair. Whether the sound of his movement or his words called Athos, Athos rose from the bed and jumped down from it and, silent as the grave, charged towards the chair.
“Stop!” Porthos yelled, not at all sure the sword would not pierce through the chairback and hit the cowering Grimaud. “Athos, are you mad?” he asked at the same time he got his own sword, which he had leaned against the wall, and managed to deflect Athos’s charge just in time.
The sound of metal on metal caused Athos to open one of his eyes, but all the same, he still made a half-hearted lunge towards Porthos, which Porthos averted easily. And then Athos’s eyes were both open, his forehead wrinkled, and his mouth set in a grimace of pain. “What are you doing dueling me, Porthos?” he asked, in a tone of great outrage.
“I would ask rather,” Porthos said, baffled, “what you are doing dueling me.” And joining action to words, he lowered his sword and sheathed it.
For a moment it hung in the balance, but then Athos lowered his sword as well, and glowered at Porthos from beneath lowered eyebrows. “I couldn’t have,” he said. “You must realize I was asleep.”
Porthos sighed and refused to say that yes, he was perfectly aware of this and vaguely shocked that Athos could duel in his sleep. Instead, he just said, “Grimaud came in. With a letter.”