The Three Musketeers | Page 3

against nobles or Huguenots, sometimes against the king, but
never against cardinal or Spain. It resulted, then, from this habit that on the said first
Monday of April, 1625, the citizens, on hearing the clamor, and seeing neither the
red-and-yellow standard nor the livery of the Duc de Richelieu, rushed toward the hostel
of the Jolly Miller. When arrived there, the cause of the hubbub was apparent to all.
A young man--we can sketch his portrait at a dash. Imagine to yourself a Don Quixote of
eighteen; a Don Quixote without his corselet, without his coat of mail, without his cuisses;
a Don Quixote clothed in a wooden doublet, the blue color of which had faded into a
nameless shade between lees of wine and a heavenly azure; face long and brown; high
cheek bones, a sign of sagacity; the maxillary muscles enormously developed, an
infallible sign by which a Gascon may always be detected, even without his cap--and our
young man wore a cap set off with a sort of feather; the eye open and intelligent; the nose
hooked, but finely chiseled. Too big for a youth, too small for a grown man, an
experienced eye might have taken him for a farmer's son upon a journey had it not been
for the long sword which, dangling from a leather baldric, hit against the calves of its
owner as he walked, and against the rough side of his steed when he was on horseback.
For our young man had a steed which was the observed of all observers. It was a Bearn
pony, from twelve to fourteen years old, yellow in his hide, without a hair in his tail, but
not without windgalls on his legs, which, though going with his head lower than his
knees, rendering a martingale quite unnecessary, contrived nevertheless to perform his
eight leagues a day. Unfortunately, the qualities of this horse were so well concealed
under his strange-colored hide and his unaccountable gait, that at a time when everybody
was a connoisseur in horseflesh, the appearance of the aforesaid pony at Meung--which
place he had entered about a quarter of an hour before, by the gate of
Beaugency--produced an unfavorable feeling, which extended to his rider.
And this feeling had been more painfully perceived by young d'Artagnan--for so was the
Don Quixote of this second Rosinante named--from his not being able to conceal from
himself the ridiculous appearance that such a steed gave him, good horseman as he was.
He had sighed deeply, therefore, when accepting the gift of the pony from M. d'Artagnan
the elder. He was not ignorant that such a beast was worth at least twenty livres; and the

words which had accompanied the present were above all price.
"My son," said the old Gascon gentleman, in that pure Bearn PATOIS of which Henry IV
could never rid himself, "this horse was born in the house of your father about thirteen
years ago, and has remained in it ever since, which ought to make you love it. Never sell
it; allow it to die tranquilly and honorably of old age, and if you make a campaign with it,
take as much care of it as you would of an old servant. At court, provided you have ever
the honor to go there," continued M. d'Artagnan the elder, "--an honor to which,
remember, your ancient nobility gives you the right--sustain worthily your name of
gentleman, which has been worthily borne by your ancestors for five hundred years, both
for your own sake and the sake of those who belong to you. By the latter I mean your
relatives and friends. Endure nothing from anyone except Monsieur the Cardinal and the
king. It is by his courage, please observe, by his courage alone, that a gentleman can
make his way nowadays. Whoever hesitates for a second perhaps allows the bait to
escape which during that exact second fortune held out to him. You are young. You
ought to be brave for two reasons: the first is that you are a Gascon, and the second is that
you are my son. Never fear quarrels, but seek adventures. I have taught you how to
handle a sword; you have thews of iron, a wrist of steel. Fight on all occasions. Fight the
more for duels being forbidden, since consequently there is twice as much courage in
fighting. I have nothing to give you, my son, but fifteen crowns, my horse, and the
counsels you have just heard. Your mother will add to them a recipe for a certain balsam,
which she had from a Bohemian and which has the miraculous virtue of curing all
wounds that do not reach the heart. Take advantage of all, and live happily and long. I
have but one word to