Alexandre Dumas' The Three Musketeers: Chapter 24
100 Days of Alexandre Dumas' The Three Musketeers June 1 - August 31, 2024
100 Days of Alexandre Dumas' The Three Musketeers
June 1 - August 31, 2024
All for One and One for All: "The Three Musketeers" at 180
July 6
Chapter 24
And so we leave Paris behind and head to the rendezvous location…
“D'Artagnan crossed the quais, went out through the porte de la Conférence, and continued along the road, much more beautiful then than now, that leads to Saint-Cloud.”
As our heroes pass through bois de Boulogne, Planchet becomes deeply philosophical:
"Don't you find, Monsieur, that woods are like churches?"
"Why is that, Planchet?"
"Because you don't dare speak aloud in either of them."
And deeply introspective:
"Because you're a poltroon, Planchet."
"Monsieur, don't confuse prudence with poltroonery; prudence is a virtue."
As a person with arthritis who is terrified of the cold, I literally feel Planchet’s pain:
"Are you afraid, Planchet?"
"No, but I would only observe to Monsieur that the night will be very cold, that chills cause rheumatism, and that a lackey with rheumatism is a sorry servant, above all for so alert a master as Monsieur."
And then - this ominous passage:
“D'Artagnan leaned back against the hedge after glancing behind him. Beyond the hedge, the garden, and the hut, a dark mist enveloped in its folds that immensity in which Paris slept, empty, gaping, an immensity in which a few specks of light shone, funereal stars in that hell.”
And what do we find instead of the pretty Constance?!?!?!
“One of the windowpanes was smashed, the door to the room had been broken down and hung in pieces from its hinges; a table that must have been covered with an elegant supper lay overturned on the floor; fragments of carafes and crushed fruit strewed the parquet; everything in the room bore witness to a violent and desperate struggle. D'Artagnan even thought he could make out in the midst of this strange pell-mell some shreds of clothing and a few bloodstains on the tablecloth and curtains.”
D'Artagnan is crushed - and terrified:
“But all these arguments were beaten down, destroyed, overturned by that sense of intimate grief which, on certain occasions, comes over our whole being and cries out to us, through every means we have of hearing, that a great misfortune is hovering over us.”
A ladder was used to reach her - we’ve encountered ladders used for reaching lovers in other French novels - The Red and the Black, The Count of Monte Cristo, Les Misérables…
“He vacillated, he grieved, he despaired.”
But the early hours of the morning finally defeated our hero…
“D'Artagnan was twenty, it will be recalled, and at that age sleep has inalienable rights, which it imperiously lays claim to, even over the most desperate hearts.”
Where will he go now with his faithful Planchet?...
Bois de Boulogne is a vast and sprawling public park in Paris - more than twice the size of the Central Park in New York City. Today it houses a zoo, botanical gardens, greenhouses, English landscaped gardens, horse racing stadiums, and Stade Roland Garros which hosts the French Open tennis tournament annually.
It was turned into a public park by Emperor Napoleon III - but in the 17th century it was an oak forest with a dangerous reputation - d’Artagnan crosses it on the way to his rendezvous - with Planchet seeing danger behind every tree… Bois de Boulogne has been a royal hunting ground since the 7th century (yes, 7th!!!) - it housed many monasteries, convents, and abbeys over the centuries - it was the favorite hideout of robbers and outlaws - in 1814 it served as the campground for tens of thousands of English and Russian soldiers who occupied France after Napoleon’s downfall…
And it was the location where in 1777 the Comte d'Artois, the brother of Louis XVI, built a miniature palace called the Château de Bagatelle in 64 days - thus winning a wager he had with his sister-in-law, Marie Antoinette. Château de Bagatelle can still be visited today!!!
The Bathing Pool at the Château de Bagatelle in the Bois de Boulogne, by Hubert Robert (1733-1808).