"Well, monsieur, he kept his word. He is dead!"
"Dead! Who killed him?"
"A demon disguised as a man, a giant armed with ten flaming swords—a madman, who at one blow extinguished the fire, put down the riot, and caused a hundred musketeers to rise up out of the pavement of the Greve."
(~1848) The Vicomte de Bragelonne is the last book of The Three Musketeers series and is actually around 2,000 pages. In English, the tradition has been to divide it into three fabricated novels. This is the first, Louise de la Vallière the second, and The Man in the Iron Mask the last. To rate and review them separately, therefore, is kind of arbitrary, but it helps get a handle on it.
The subtitle is Ten Years Later. So, we are ten years past 20 Years After, the second book in the series. That makes our friend d’Artagnan 54, and the year 1660, the time of the restoration of the Stuart monarchy (thanks to the musketeers, of course). Even though the titular character is Raoul, the rather humorless bastard son of Athos, we all know the real hero of this grand finale is the brave Gascon.
“I don't belong to this age; I have still one foot in the old one; it results that everything is strange in my eyes, everything astonishes and bewilders me.”
Dumas continues some of the themes from Twenty Years After, of aging, of disappointments (especially compared to successful friends), and adds that of alienation—of a great, older generation looking with sadness upon a spiritless younger one, here embodied in King Louis XIV. “Oh,” d’Artagnan thinks to himself, “if I were but twenty-five! If I had by my side those I no longer have! If I did not despise the whole world most profoundly… " However, these melancholy notes are but a prelude, a little self-pitying indulgence before Dumas turns it all around. “D’Artagnan Is Rich” would perhaps be a more appropriate title for this volume, since part of the pleasure is to see the perpetually down-on-his-luck soldier of fortune finally enjoy a well-deserved prosperity.
"Then, reverend father, I have truly a clean breast. I feel nothing remaining but slight peccadilloes."
"What are they?"
"Play."
"That is rather worldly: but you were obliged by the duties of greatness to keep a good house."
"I like to win."
"No player plays to lose."
"I cheated a little."
"You took your advantage. Pass on."
Taken as the first third of a novel, Dumas begins in the entertaining yet relaxed manner of a man pacing himself for more serious things. Some of the chapters, like the Confession of a Man of Wealth, are purely comic, of a humor Woody Allen would approve. Often the adventures are abortive, the plots foiled, and the machinations parried, like two swordsmen feeling each other out.
"’There is the signal,’ added he; and he immediately applied the burning brand to the wainscoting.”
Robert Louis Stevenson, whose rapturous praise of the final installment is worth reading on its own (it was his favorite novel), nevertheless conceded the work “goes heavily” in the beginning, specifically until chapter 17. I wouldn’t go that far. I was perking up around chapter 10. Throughout the book Dumas does keep most of his gunpowder dry. You only get sporadic flourishes of those dramatic moments that are the hallmark of his art. When they spring on you, you are reminded of what elevates him from the merely great (him and Maquet, that is. I mustn’t forget Maquet). Still, I could live in this book: the heroics, the insecurities. The battle of wits, the resignation. The fine feelings and camaraderie, to say nothing of the glorious trash-talk. The variety of characters and locales, incomparably French, from Parisian squares to country taverns to a lone Breton isle. Good food, good Anjou wine. For all the high romance, Dumas’ works are so human.
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Marginalia:
*At one point, three o’clock in the morning is described as “break of day.” I’ve noticed this in other old books. Was dawn earlier in the past?
*Speaking of which, Dumas is always eloquent on the tortures of having to wake up from deep sleep. D’Artagnan—I was interested to read—seems content to get six hours of sleep and even after a fatiguing day feels fresh after five. Aramis, on the other hand, says he requires seven hours. This is apparently unusual enough to require reminding—at least to d’Artagnan.
Another good quote:
“I possess nothing. I am no more king of France than you are king of England. I am a name, a cipher dressed in fleur-de-lised velvet,—that is all.”