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Essential Novelists - Alexandre Dumas. Alexandre Dumas
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isbn 9783967993462
Автор произведения Alexandre Dumas
Жанр Языкознание
Серия Essential Novelists
Издательство Bookwire
“How so, if he love her?” asked d’Artagnan.
“Wait,” said Athos. “He took her to his chateau, and made her the first lady in the province; and in justice it must be allowed that she supported her rank becomingly.”
“Well?” asked d’Artagnan.
“Well, one day when she was hunting with her husband,” continued Athos, in a low voice, and speaking very quickly, “she fell from her horse and fainted. The count flew to her to help, and as she appeared to be oppressed by her clothes, he ripped them open with his poniard, and in so doing laid bare her shoulder. D’Artagnan,” said Athos, with a maniacal burst of laughter, “guess what she had on her shoulder.”
“How can I tell?” said d’Artagnan.
“A FLEUR-DE-LIS,” said Athos. “She was branded.”
Athos emptied at a single draught the glass he held in his hand.
“Horror!” cried d’Artagnan. “What do you tell me?”
“Truth, my friend. The angel was a demon; the poor young girl had stolen the sacred vessels from a church.”
“And what did the count do?”
“The count was of the highest nobility. He had on his estates the rights of high and low tribunals. He tore the dress of the countess to pieces; he tied her hands behind her, and hanged her on a tree.”
“Heavens, Athos, a murder?” cried d’Artagnan.
“No less,” said Athos, as pale as a corpse. “But methinks I need wine!” and he seized by the neck the last bottle that was left, put it to his mouth, and emptied it at a single draught, as he would have emptied an ordinary glass.
Then he let his head sink upon his two hands, while d’Artagnan stood before him, stupefied.
“That has cured me of beautiful, poetical, and loving women,” said Athos, after a considerable pause, raising his head, and forgetting to continue the fiction of the count. “God grant you as much! Let us drink.”
“Then she is dead?” stammered d’Artagnan.
“PARBLEU!” said Athos. “But hold out your glass. Some ham, my boy, or we can’t drink.”
“And her brother?” added d’Artagnan, timidly.
“Her brother?” replied Athos.
“Yes, the priest.”
“Oh, I inquired after him for the purpose of hanging him likewise; but he was beforehand with me, he had quit the curacy the night before.”
“Was it ever known who this miserable fellow was?”
“He was doubtless the first lover and accomplice of the fair lady. A worthy man, who had pretended to be a curate for the purpose of getting his mistress married, and securing her a position. He has been hanged and quartered, I hope.”
“My God, my God!” cried d’Artagnan, quite stunned by the relation of this horrible adventure.
“Taste some of this ham, d’Artagnan; it is exquisite,” said Athos, cutting a slice, which he placed on the young man’s plate.
“What a pity it is there were only four like this in the cellar. I could have drunk fifty bottles more.”
D’Artagnan could no longer endure this conversation, which had made him bewildered. Allowing his head to sink upon his two hands, he pretended to sleep.
“These young fellows can none of them drink,” said Athos, looking at him with pity, “and yet this is one of the best!”
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D’ARTAGNAN WAS ASTOUNDED by the terrible confidence of Athos; yet many things appeared very obscure to him in this half revelation. In the first place it had been made by a man quite drunk to one who was half drunk; and yet, in spite of the incertainty which the vapor of three or four bottles of Burgundy carries with it to the brain, d’Artagnan, when awaking on the following morning, had all the words of Athos as present to his memory as if they then fell from his mouth—they had been so impressed upon his mind. All this doubt only gave rise to a more lively desire of arriving at a certainty, and he went into his friend’s chamber with a fixed determination of renewing the conversation of the preceding evening; but he found Athos quite himself again—that is to say, the most shrewd and impenetrable of men. Besides which, the Musketeer, after having exchanged a hearty shake of the hand with him, broached the matter first.
“I was pretty drunk yesterday, d’Artagnan,” said he, “I can tell that by my tongue, which was swollen and hot this morning, and by my pulse, which was very tremulous. I wager that I uttered a thousand extravagances.”
While saying this he looked at his friend with an earnestness that embarrassed him.
“No,” replied d’Artagnan, “if I recollect well what you said, it was nothing out of the common way.”
“Ah, you surprise me. I thought I had told you a most lamentable story.” And he looked at the young man as if he would read the bottom of his heart.
“My faith,” said d’Artagnan, “it appears that I was more drunk than you, since I remember nothing of the kind.”
Athos did not trust this reply, and he resumed; “you cannot have failed to remark, my dear friend, that everyone has his particular kind of drunkenness, sad or gay. My drunkenness is always sad, and when I am thoroughly drunk my mania is to relate all the lugubrious stories which my foolish nurse inculcated into my brain. That is my failing—a capital failing, I admit; but with that exception, I am a good drinker.”
Athos spoke this in so natural a manner that d’Artagnan was shaken in his conviction.
“It is that, then,” replied the young man, anxious to find out the truth, “it is that, then, I remember as we remember a dream. We were speaking of hanging.”
“Ah, you see how it is,” said Athos, becoming still paler, but yet attempting to laugh; “I was sure it was so—the hanging of people is my nightmare.”
“Yes, yes,” replied d’Artagnan. “I remember now; yes, it was about—stop a minute—yes, it was about a woman.”
“That’s it,” replied Athos, becoming almost livid; “that is my grand story of the fair lady, and when I relate that, I must be very drunk.”
“Yes, that was it,” said d’Artagnan, “the story of a tall, fair lady, with blue eyes.”
“Yes, who was hanged.”
“By her husband, who was a nobleman of your acquaintance,” continued d’Artagnan, looking intently at Athos.
“Well, you see how a man may compromise himself when he does not know what he says,” replied Athos, shrugging his shoulders as if he thought himself an object of pity. “I certainly never will get drunk again, d’Artagnan; it is too bad a habit.”
D’Artagnan remained silent; and then changing the conversation all at once, Athos said:
“By the by, I thank you for the horse you have brought me.”
“Is it to your mind?” asked d’Artagnan.
“Yes; but it is not a horse for hard work.”
“You are mistaken; I rode him nearly ten