The Three Musketeers

by Alexandre Dumas

“this horse was born on my estate nearly thirteen years ago and has never left it. That should be enough to make you love him. Never sell him, let him die peacefully and honorably of old age, and if you go to war with him, treat him with consideration, as you would treat an old servant.

Anyone who trembles for even one second may lose the chance that fortune offered him precisely at that second.

Finally, satisfied with himself for the way he had behaved at Meung, without remorse for the past, confident in the present, and full of hope for the future, he went to bed and slept the sleep of the brave. In his case it was also the sleep of a provincial.

He had thus reached the peak of the human condition: he was admired, feared, and loved.

Looking down at the handsome young man, no more than twenty-five, whom he was leaving dead or unconscious on the ground, d’Artagnan sighed at the thought of the strange destiny that made men destroy each other for the interests of people who did not know them, and often did not even know that they existed.

D’Artagnan was filled with wonder at the thought that the fate of nations could sometimes hang by such fragile, unknown threads.

As is well known, there is a god for drunkards and lovers.

I won’t shoot myself, because I’m too good a Catholic for that,

“Poor fools!” he said. “They don’t seem to realize that Catholicism is the most pleasant and advantageous of all religions!” He paused to savor the aftertaste of the wine. “Even so, you have to admire them…

“What is your religion?” he asked. “I’ll tell you that,” she said with feigned emotion, “when I’ve suffered enough for my faith.”

She had a combination of advantages more effective than any passport: her beauty, her air of distinction, and the generosity with which she handed out money.

“Yes, I know that people say we shouldn’t judge by appearances, but what can we believe in, if not in the Lord’s noblest handiwork: the human face? Maybe I’ll often be disappointed or deceived, but I’ll always trust someone whose face appeals to me.”

But, not being able to crush her, she smiled at her.

She would not be bored, because she would have the most enjoyable of all occupations for a woman of her nature: making plans for revenge.

When d’Artagnan burst out sobbing, Athos said to him in his noble, persuasive voice, “Be a man, my friend. Women weep for the dead, men avenge them.”

D’Artagnan hid his face against Athos’s chest and began sobbing again. “Weep,” said Athos, “weep, young heart filled with love, youth, and life! How I wish I could weep as you do!” And he led his friend away, affectionate as a father, comforting as a priest, greathearted as a man who has suffered much.

Life doesn’t mean enough to me to make me fear death.”

“You’re young,” said Athos. “Your bitter memories still have time to turn into sweet ones.”