D'Artagnan - My Story (from The Three Musketeers)

By Dr E J Yeaman

Greetings. My name is d’Artagnan. In April 1625, at the age of eighteen, I left my father’s farm for Paris, hoping to join the King’s musketeers. I made friends – Athos, Porthos and Aramis (the three musketeers). And I made enemies – the man from Meung and Lady de Winter. Not to mention Cardinal Richelieu.... (A retelling of The Three Musketeers, by Alexandre Dumas.)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dr E J Yeaman
• Release date: Aug 30, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370683871

Dr E J Yeaman

I retired (early) and started a new career as a writer. I wrote short stories and articles. Some were published; some won prizes; some sank without trace.Having heard my stories, two friends suggested I should write for children. I’d never thought of that, although I’d spent my first career communicating with young people – as a Chemistry teacher, and running clubs for badminton, chess, table tennis and hillwalking.I tried writing for young people – and I loved it. It became my main occupation. I sent samples to publishers. One asked to see a complete story. In excitement, I sent it off. Then nothing. After four months, I rang, and was told the manuscript was being considered: I would be notified. Then more nothing. Now, after eight years, I no longer rush to the door when the letter box rattles.But I kept writing the stories because I enjoyed it so much. Until, in late 2013, I learned I could publish my stories and games as e-books. Since then, I’ve been polishing and issuing some of them. I hope everyone enjoys reading them as much as I enjoyed writing them.Check out the series:C: Charades – party game – a new twist to the traditional game.D: Diagags – party game – gags written as plays for two people.M: My Story – novels – classical stories, told by the heroes.O: One-Offs – party game – guess the titles, not quite the classical ones.P: Pop Tales – short stories – inspired by 60s and 70s hit songs.Q: Quote-Outs – word games – can you deduce the missing words?S: Inside Story – novels – a boy’s adventures inside classical stories.T: Troubleshooters – novels – space adventures for young people.

Book preview

INTRODUCTION

Alexandre Dumas (1802-1870) is one of the most successful French authors, with his works translated into countless languages. He had his first success with plays, then moved on to true crime.

When Sir Walter Scott pioneered a new genre of writing, the historical novel, Dumas tried that, with successes like The Count of Monte Cristo and The Man in the Iron Mask – not to mention The Three Musketeers. But Scott and Dumas approached the genre differently: the historical events were part of the fabric of Scott’s stories. For Dumas, they provided a backdrop.

In The Three Musketeers, his supporting characters were real people: King Louis XIII, Queen Anne, Cardinal Richelieu, M de Treville, the Duke of Buckingham and John Felton. Athos, Porthos, Aramis and d’Artagnan were also real people, although their adventures are fictional.

The Three Musketeers was written to a deadline – a chapter a day for a newspaper, Le Siecle. It ran from March to June 1844, and was issued in one volume later that year. It’s interesting to speculate on how much Dumas planned it, and how much he made it up as he went along.

Towards the end of the story, perhaps due to reader interest, Dumas moved the focus to Lady de Winter, the strongest character. In chapters 49 to 50 and 52 to 59, about a seventh of the text, he abandoned the musketeers. In this book, centred on d’Artagnan, that diversion is absent.

As with the other stories in this series, this one sticks closely to the plot of the original. Like modern novels, The Three Musketeers rises to a climax but then it concludes with a brief summary of the subsequent lives of the main characters. I’ve twisted the ending slightly, trying to make it neater.

In The Three Musketeers, the characters frequently deal with money. They use different denominations, but I’ve tried to smooth the reading by making them all crowns. That caused inconsistencies, so I’ve adjusted some of the values.

As with most of the stories in the My Story series, The Three Musketeers was written for adults. Nowadays, it is sometimes classed as a children’s book by those who think they know better. But I make no apologies for designating this book as suitable for everyone from ages 8 to 80 – or even older. I hope you all enjoy it.

D’ARTAGNAN – MY STORY

PART 1: TO PARIS

1

LEAVING HOME

My father asked, Son, are you sure you wish to leave?

I’m eighteen! I said. Isn’t that old enough to go out in the world on my own.

He smiled. Don’t take offence where none was intended. I hope you are not too proud to take some parting gifts – and some advice. First, here is my sword. Perhaps he saw my surprise: he said, Take it, Son. I’m too old to use it now. I have taught you all my skills, and you have learned well. And remember – it’s by courage, and courage alone, that a man will prosper in these days. Take insults from no man – except King Louis and Cardinal Richelieu. Seek chances to fight, especially to duel. That requires twice the courage because it’s forbidden by law.

Thank you, Father. I buckled the sword to my belt.

Father continued, You will require money for your journey to Paris. Here are fifteen crowns. I hope they will be enough.

They’ll be more than enough. I thank you. I knew how poor that would leave him.

Take this letter of introduction to M de Treville, whom I once had the honour of serving. He is now Captain of the Musketeers, the loyal bodyguards of the King. Like you, M de Treville came from a humble family in Gascony, but he is now the third most powerful man in France, after the King and the Cardinal. He won his position by courage. Let him be your guide, my boy.

Thank you, Father. I tucked the precious letter carefully in an inner pocket of my doublet.

I have one final gift for you, son, said my father. Brimstone.

With mixed feelings, I asked, Don’t you need Brimstone?

You must have a horse to take you to Paris. Do not scorn Brimstone or permit others to scorn her. She is loyal and strong.

She also had the belly and gait of a drunken sailor, and a coat of a peculiar yellow colour. If I rode her to Paris, and sought to avenge all insults on the way, I would have many opportunities for using my sword. But Brimstone had been in the family since I was an infant. By giving her to me, my father was making a great sacrifice. I put my arms round him. Thank you!

He told me, Your mother is waiting to bid you farewell. If you intend to follow my advice, you may find her parting gift useful.

My parting from my mother was long and affectionate. Tears were shed – on both sides I must confess. Her gift was a piece of paper with the secret recipe for a cream which would heal wounds quickly.

Then my father clapped my shoulder. God be with you, Son. I set out on my lone journey.

2

THE MAN AT MEUNG

As I had suspected, Brimstone raised smiles in every village. Several times my hand went to the hilt of my sword, but the smiler eyed my scowl and became stony-faced.

In the village of Meung, I dismounted outside the inn and stood, holding the reins because no servant emerged to take them.

In a ground floor window of the inn sat a fellow in a violet doublet. Looking at me, he made a comment to his two companions. They broke into loud laughter.

Suspecting that the stranger was insulting Brimstone, I strode towards the inn, acting as I’d seen the Gascon nobles do – pulling my cap over my eyes, putting my right hand on the hilt of my sword, and my left hand on my hip.

As I drew nearer the inn, I heard what the stranger said. Wondrous are the works of the Lord.

I’d been preparing a dignified challenge to the fellow, but anger drove it out. I called, You, sir! You – hiding behind that shutter. Yes, you! Tell me what you’re laughing at, then I can share the joke.

The fellow slowly turned with his nose in the air. In a haughty voice, he said, I was not speaking to you, sir.

My anger rose. But I was speaking to you.

He left the window and sauntered out to survey Brimstone. Is it a horse or is it a buttercup? His friends, still in the window, roared with laughter.

I shouted at him, A man may laugh at a horse but would not dare to laugh at her master.

The fellow smirked at me. I do not often laugh, sir, but I do intend to laugh when I wish.

I drew my sword. "I do not permit anyone to laugh when I do not wish."

Really, sir? He turned his back on me and strolled towards the inn door.

Turn, Jester! I called. I will not strike your back.

Strike me? He turned, showing surprise and contempt. You are the jester. Or perhaps you are mad. He continued as if he was talking to himself. His majesty would welcome this fellow. He is always looking for firebrands for his guards.

On guard! I lunged towards him. He jumped back, drawing his sword but, before our blades clashed, his two cronies and the innkeeper charged out of the inn and attacked me with a stick, a club and a spade.

I defended myself, trying to keep all three of them at bay – while the stranger sheathed his own sword and watched us with a smug smile. He commented in a voice loud enough for me to hear, These Gascons are so tiresome. Put him on his yellow horse and send him off.

I called, Not before I have run you through!

He retorted, Can’t you take a lesson? Friends, continue the dance since it seems to amuse him. When he’s had enough, he’ll quit.

But I was determined to defeat the louts and attack the arrogant fellow. I fought on, until a blow of the spade broke my sword, and a blow of the club almost knocked me out. I reeled around and collapsed in the dusty road.

The innkeeper held the other two back. What a scene! Look at that crowd gathering. Next we shall have a riot. You two, take him inside. He followed as the other two helped me into his kitchen.

I said, Order that fellow not to leave. I haven’t finished with him.

He has finished with you.

I wish this were Paris. I slapped my pocket. Then we would find out how M de Treville treats those who insult his comrades.

That was stretching the truth, but it did make the innkeeper treat me with more respect. He ordered his wife to tend my wounds. I removed my doublet, and she bathed them.

By that time, I realised I was in no condition to continue my journey. The innkeeper’s wife agreed I might remain overnight. She helped me to an upstairs room, where she dressed my wounds.

The innkeeper came up to scowl at me. The gentleman has ordered his horse to be saddled. He is leaving immediately.

Not before he has faced me. I tried to rise, but the pain from my wounds defeated me.

No doubt he was annoyed by your insolence. He is a great lord.

I cried, A great coward!

Great lords do not fight commoners. Your behaviour has caused me to lose a valuable customer. I must ask you to leave my inn.

Your wife has given me this room.

She thought you were too badly injured to travel. You must leave.

Like this? My head was wrapped in bandages; my shirt and breeches were torn and streaked with blood.

You are conscious. If you do not go, I shall call the guards to arrest you.

I let him help me down the stairs. At the door of the inn, the stranger was talking to a woman in an expensive carriage. I was struck by her beauty. Unlike Gascon maids, she was pale, with wide blue eyes and long fair hair, curling to her shoulders.

She asked the stranger, What does his eminence command?

You must return immediately to England, My Lady. Find out if the Duke has left London.

Then?

Your further orders are in this box. He handed up a plain wooden box. Do not open it until you have crossed the Channel.

As you wish. What will you do?

I return to Paris.

Without punishing the insolent boy?

I rushed forward. It’s not the boy who should be punished. I am ready to punish the one who should be punished.

And who is that? The fellow looked at me as if he didn’t understand.

I said, Would you show your nature by running away in the presence of a lady?

The fellow put his hand on his sword, but the woman said, Don’t waste time. The slightest delay might spoil everything.

You’re right, said the fellow. We don’t have time for trivial distractions. We must go now. Now! He jumped on his horse and galloped off in one direction, while the coachman whipped his horses into motion in the other.

The innkeeper raised an arm after the horseman. Sir! Your bill!

The fellow called over his shoulder, Servant, pay him.

His servant, already on a horse, threw a few pieces of silver at the innkeeper’s feet, and pounded after his master.

I took a few feeble steps after them. Coward! Wretch! Liar! But the effort was too much for me. A cloud passed before my eyes, and I collapsed in the road.

The innkeeper knelt beside me. I muttered, Coward! Coward!

He said, The woman saved you. Do you know her?

I gasped, My Lady! And fell in a faint.

3

TO PARIS

When I awakened, I was in the upstairs room of the inn, with the innkeeper watching his wife bathing my brow. They never threatened to throw me out or call the guards. The innkeeper said I was welcome to stay for eleven days. I wondered why he said eleven days – until I realised I had eleven crowns in my purse.

He was too hopeful. On the second day, I ordered the ingredients for my mother’s special cream. I made it up, and it was so effective that I felt ready to leave by the day after. I asked for my bill – the ingredients for the cream, plus fodder for Brimstone, who had supposedly eaten more than her own weight of oats.

As I put my purse away, I noticed that my father’s letter to M de Treville wasn’t in my doublet pocket. I was sure I had put it there but, in rising alarm, I searched my other pockets and my travelling bag. The letter was gone.

I faced the innkeeper, putting my hand on the hilt of my sword. Where is my letter?

He backed away, picking up the spit to defend himself. Letter?

I had a vital letter in my doublet pocket. Where is it? I whipped out my sword – the first few centimetres – and felt foolish: I had forgotten it was broken.

The innkeeper raised his hand. Peace, friend. If you describe your letter, I shall search for it.

In wrath, I said, I’ll soon describe my letter. It was addressed to M de Treville. If you can’t find it, perhaps I shall ask him to do so.

M de Treville! exclaimed the innkeeper. He dropped the spit, then he and his wife and servants had a frantic but unsuccessful search for the letter while I stormed around, waving the stump of my sword.

At last, the innkeeper admitted, We cannot find your letter. Did it contain anything of value?

Value! I exclaimed. It contained my fortune! The introduction would have taken me to the royal court.

Was it in bank notes?

Notes from the King himself. That wasn’t really a lie. The letter would have taken me into the King’s service.

The innkeeper swore in annoyance.

I said, I can do without the money. It’s the letter I want. I’d rather have lost a thousand crowns than that letter. Could it have been stolen? That was a foolish question: why would anyone steal a letter introducing me to M de Treville?

But the innkeeper said, Oh! Now I remember. Perhaps your letter was stolen. Where was it?

In my doublet. I slapped the pocket.

Then I can tell you who took it. I told that stranger you were a comrade of M de Treville. He went into the kitchen. He was there alone with your doublet. I have no doubt he found the letter and removed it.

Then he was the robber, I said. He is base enough. I shall tell M de Treville of the theft, and perhaps the King himself. What was the fellow’s name?

I never heard it, sir.

Then I shall hold you responsible for the loss.

That humbled the innkeeper, who followed me to the door, cap in hand, and wished me a successful continuation of my journey.

In the outskirts of Paris, I decided I couldn’t defend Brimstone against the whole population of the city, especially with a broken sword. So I sold her – for more than I expected because the dealer was intrigued by her colour.

I completed the journey into Paris on foot, carrying my bag under my arm. I found lodgings with a fellow called Bonacieux in the Rue des Fossoyeurs. It was a garret but it was cheap. I spent some time and money in repairing my clothes and obtaining a new blade for my sword.

I enquired where I might find M de Treville’s headquarters. It wasn’t far from my lodgings. That was a good omen.

The meeting with M de Treville would be the most important of my life. The night before, I went to bed early so that I would be well slept.

4

MUSKETEERS HEADQUARTERS

Two men were on duty at the iron-studded door that led to M de Treville’s headquarters. Holding my head up, pretending I was important, I told them, M d’Artagnan wishes to see M de Treville.

One of the men gave a slight bow. Welcome, M d’Artagnan. Cross the courtyard and go up the stairs to the anteroom. He swung the door open. Give your name to the servant on duty there, my boy.

My anger rose, but I couldn’t introduce myself to M de Treville by brawling with his doorman. So I marched through, head up, saying, Thank you, my man.

Musketeers were strolling around the courtyard in small groups, talking, joking and arguing. I threaded among them, holding my cap in my hand and pretending a confidence I didn’t feel. After I had dodged past each group, I suspected they stopped to talk about me, but I didn’t dare to look back.

Then I reached the stairs. One musketeer was standing on the fourth or fifth step, defending it with his sword against three who were challenging him from the courtyard. Their swords flashed amidst a stream of banter. I joined a number of others in a half-circle around the combatants.

I assumed they were practising, using foils with buttons on the points, until one of the lower three backed off – with a bleeding cut on his chin. Amidst a barrage of mocking comments, he withdrew. One of the spectators took his place. After another bout of lightning swordplay, another of the attackers withdrew with a cut across the back of his hand.

Anxiously, I whispered to my neighbour. What are they doing?

They are contesting for the right to attend M de Treville. When M de Treville calls for a volunteer, the one on the stairs will go.

In alarm, I said, I’ve come to see M de Treville. Must I do that?

Are you a musketeer?

N...no. Not yet.

Then go past during a break.

By that time, the blades were flashing again, but that was a short bout before one of the lower ones claimed, I wounded you!

The one on the stairs bawled, It is nothing.

Your ear is bleeding.

Nonsense! He put his hand to his ear. It came away with a smear of blood.

As they argued the point, I dodged up the stairs. On the upper landing, six men were discussing their adventures with various ladies. Keeping my head down, I squirmed between them and slipped through the door into the anteroom, where another group of men were recounting scandalous tales of the court.

Cardinal Richelieu was the main subject – or butt – of their tales. But two ladies were mentioned – one, Madame d’Aiguillon, apparently his mistress, and the other, Madame Combalet, his niece. I was horrified to hear those ladies’ names openly defamed.

But, as the talk went on, I confess I found it entertaining and I admired the bravado of those men.

Having no desire to draw their attention, I had been moving around the anteroom. Now a servant appeared and asked my business. I begged a brief meeting with M de Treville. The servant agreed to make the request.

I leaned against the wall beside the window which looked over the courtyard, and continued to listen to the musketeers’ gossip. One fellow was not wearing a musketeer’s uniform, but a sky-blue tunic, edged with gold. On top of that was a long cloak of crimson velvet. He stood, brawny and proud, twirling his moustaches, while the others admired his magnificent golden belt.

The belt? he said. Oh, it’s foolish but it’s the fashion. And I must spend my father’s fortune on something.

One of the others said, Porthos! Don’t try to tell us it came from your father’s money. Wasn’t it given to you by that veiled lady I saw you with last Sunday?

Never! exclaimed Porthos. On my honour, I bought this belt with my own money.

The others yelled in disbelief.

It’s true! cried Porthos. This belt cost me twelve crowns.

Twelve crowns!

Exactly, said Porthos. Isn’t that so, Aramis? He appealed to a slimmer man, neatly dressed in black. Aramis was young – perhaps twenty-two or twenty-three, with an innocent expression. His moustache was a thin line on his upper lip.

Aramis agreed, It is so, and that appeared to end the argument.

Another man asked, Have you heard what Chalais’s squire is saying?

Porthos asked, What’s that?

He claims he found Rochefort, the Cardinal’s agent, in Brussels, disguised as a friar. And that cursed Rochefort deceived M de Laignes.

Porthos boomed, A child could deceive M de Laignes. But is it true?

The other musketeer said, I heard it from Aramis.

Aramis said, Porthos, I told you myself yesterday evening. Let’s not talk about it.

Let’s not talk about it! exclaimed Porthos. The Cardinal sets a spy on a gentleman, to steal his correspondence, to try to prove that he intended to kill the King and marry the Queen. And you say, ‘Let’s not talk about it.’

Well then, said Aramis calmly. If you want to talk about it, go ahead.

Porthos said, If I was poor Chalais’s squire, I would have my revenge.

Have your revenge? said Aramis. The Cardinal is not called the Red Duke for nothing.

The Red Duke! cried Porthos. Why do you give him such nicknames? What a pity you can’t follow your true career. You would make a good priest.

It won’t be long, said Aramis. One day, I shall be a man of God. I study the Bible every day, as you well know.

Porthos told the others, He will do as he says. His priest’s gown hangs on the peg behind his musketeer’s uniform. He awaits only one event to don it.

Another musketeer asked, What event is that?

Aramis answered, I wait till the Queen has given an heir to the throne of France.

That’s not a matter for jesting, said Porthos. Thank God the Queen is still young enough to provide an heir. But let’s talk of something else.

After a moment, Aramis remarked, It’s said that the Duke of Buckingham is in France. That caused a gale of laughter. I