“Saint-Aignan lowered his head. ‘I am betrayed,’ he murmured. “Everything is known!’
“‘Everything is always known,’ replied Porthos, who knew nothing.”
(1850) The musketeer swan song. It is also the payoff for some long-in-the-making storylines. For example we finally learn what all the intrigue with Aramis is about. Turns out that Dumas has been assembling the pieces for an imposter-type story, based on a rather silly theory of Voltaire’s that a legendary prisoner in the Bastille was the king’s twin brother. And it will include all the fun stuff we now expect from the genre: the preparations for the fraud, in which Aramis plays the handler, supplying the imposter with notes on his new life and drilling him on them; the switcheroo, or crime rather; and then of course the minefield of the double’s new life, where he has to deceive his victim’s acquaintances and loved ones.* The suspense feels modern. Dumas is not the first to write a stolen-identity story, but he is the first I know of to use all these tropes common to spy thrillers and cinema. And as always, who knows: it may have been his collaborator Maquet.
*[That last bit is disappointingly short-lived. In fact so is the entire part played by the twin. It’s best to keep in mind that Dumas was not responsible for the title of this book].
“‘In the king’s name!’ cried he again, ‘stop, or I will bring you down with a pistol-shot!’
‘Do!’ replied Fouquet, without relaxing his speed.”
It strikes me that through this whole series the heroes and villains are somewhat malleable. The roles change of a sudden. The bad guys are often admired. The musketeers themselves, while you never doubt their hearts, have nonetheless always had a screw loose, been at odds, and in this novel Aramis, who conspires to be king-maker and pursues the papacy, is undeniably diabolical. Dumas also puts a wrinkle in the relationship between Colbert and Fouquet. We should be rooting for the charmless, unkempt, “square-headed” Colbert, who is a hardworking patriot, over the cavalier and popular Fouquet, who squanders his country’s money on himself and his friends. But by the end Dumas has fairly turned it all around—shown the self-interest in selflessness and the personal honor in disgrace. It’s style vs substance and you can’t help but see where Dumas’ sympathies lie.
“If you play the other game, you run the chance of being assassinated on a throne, strangled in a prison-cell. Upon my soul, I assure you, now I begin to compare them together, I myself should hesitate which lot I should accept.”
I knew without looking that the “night talk in the forest of Senart” would be included in Robert Louis Stevenson’s list of highlights of the novel. Aramis is excellent, the way he uses all his eloquence and empathy to persuade the prince to refuse him. I had bookmarked some of my own highlights on Audible but a glitch messed them all up.
“Two men—and they have killed ten in two discharges! It is impossible, Monsieur Biscarrat!”
“…believe me, captain, I have seen these men… I know they themselves alone are all-sufficient to destroy an army.”
The set piece around the Death of a Titan chapter is another signature Dumas climax set in a remote location, here a lonely grotto tucked away on the far shore of an isle. The skirmish becomes like something out of Rambo, or a slasher flick, as the two trapped musketeers start picking off their spooked assailants one by one, almost invisibly. I’m not ready to speak about what happens after, the sound of a man’s cry as his legs give way, the sight of him floundering “as in a dream,” the bantering last words.
When you look at it, the ending is just a disaster. The temperamental king wins, Colbert gets what he wants, Fouquet goes to the Bastille for life just to save d’Artagan’s honor, the poor man in the iron mask—his life goes from a tragedy to a living nightmare. Death death death… Dumas, I’ve noticed, is not averse to showing his heroes defeated. The “cabalistic” farewell at the end is rather haunting.
No more musketeer books left! No more d’Artagnan. I’m sad.
“Adieu! then, messieurs, or rather, to meet again, I hope.”
________________
Some favorite parts:
“Baisemeaux turned pale at this icy assurance of manner. It seemed to him that the voice of the bishop’s, but just now so playful and gay, had become funereal and sad; that the wax lights changed into the tapers of a mortuary chapel, the very glasses of wine into chalices of blood.”
____
“The fisherman informed him that six days previously, a man had come in the night to hire his boat, for the purpose of visiting the island of St. Honnorat. The price was agreed upon, but the gentleman had arrived with an immense carriage case, which he insisted upon embarking, in spite of the many difficulties that opposed the operation. The fisherman wished to retract. He had even threatened, but his threats had procured him nothing but a shower of blows from the gentleman’s cane, which fell upon his shoulders sharp and long. Swearing and grumbling, he had recourse to the syndic of his brotherhood at Antibes, who administer justice among themselves and protect each other; but the gentleman had exhibited a certain paper, at sight of which the syndic, bowing to the very ground, enjoined obedience from the fisherman, and abused him for having been refractory.”
[I really liked the scenes with Athos and Raoul at the Royal Fort on Sainte Marguerite Island, off Cannes. It would be interesting to visit. I hear it’s still full of rabbits. Incidentally, it’s pretty hilarious that d’Artagnan was again transporting a man in a crate].
____
“Aramis leaned his head upon his hands, and made no reply. Then, all at once,—‘Porthos,’ said he, ‘have the alarm sounded.’
‘The alarm! do you imagine such a thing?’
‘Yes, and let the cannoniers mount their batteries, the artillerymen be at their pieces, and be particularly watchful of the coast batteries.’”
____
“…the men had stripped a fir, growing on the shore, and, with its resinous branches twisted together, the captain had made a flambeau. On arriving at the compartment where Porthos, like the exterminating angel, had destroyed all he touched, the first rank drew back in terror. No firing had replied to that of the guards, and yet their way was stopped by a heap of dead bodies—they literally walked in blood. Porthos was still behind his pillar. The captain, illumining with trembling pine-torch this frightful carnage, of which he in vain sought the cause, drew back towards the pillar behind which Porthos was concealed. Then a gigantic hand issued from the shade, and fastened on the throat of the captain, who uttered a stifled rattle; his stretched-out arms beating the air, the torch fell and was extinguished in blood. A second after, the corpse of the captain dropped close to the extinguished torch, and added another body to the heap of dead which blocked up the passage. All this was effected as mysteriously as though by magic. At hearing the rattling in the throat of the captain, the soldiers who accompanied him had turned round, caught a glimpse of his extended arms, his eyes starting from their sockets, and then the torch fell and they were left in darkness.”
Allusions:
“In this manner they passed along a winding gallery of some length, with as many staircases leading out of it as are to be found in the mysterious and gloomy palaces of Ann Radcliffe’s creation.”
La Fontaine (who put classic fables to verse) and Moliere make appearances. Dumas suggests Moliere got his idea of the Bourgeois Gentleman from Porthos.