Three Musketeers (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) (5 page)

The contrition Aramis expresses here and his seeming denial of active responsibility for the injury of his opponent appear to be designed to elicit absolution for an act that is both illegal (dueling) and immoral (killing)
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The reader may well smile at this, but the Cardinal—who is both the author of a ban on dueling and a prelate—will in fact pardon Aramis. He does so, however, not because of the efficacy of the Musketeer’s language, but because he discovers that Aramis and his friends fought to protect a woman who, unbeknownst to them, is none other than Milady—the very person the Cardinal has come to meet at the inn.

Comic scenes like this and the others described above seem to me to be more than just occasions for laughter. They play a role in the development of character psychology—something critics have at times insisted is lacking in Dumas’s novel. In fact, these comic episodes show that, even when characters evolve little over the course of the story, their foibles do not go unexamined and readers are afforded some insight into the workings of their minds. What is more, although D’Artagnan’s transformation from an impetuous youth to a thoughtful, resolute adult is often slow and uneven, he does travel the road from innocence to experience, from naivete to knowledge.

In this way, despite the swashbuckling nature of his adventures, Dumas’s seventeenth-century protagonist is very much like Eugène de Rastignac, the nineteenth-century hero of Balzac’s
Le Père Goriot (Old Goriot,
1834—1835), whose journey, while seemingly more urbane and of a more modern nature, follows a very similar path. Both novels begin with a naive young man’s arrival in Paris, where he is forced, for lack of funds, to take modest lodgings. Both show him making mistakes and being guided by mentors. Both novels end with a somber, sobering death that, overt differences aside, similarly marks the definitive end of the protagonist’s youth and the beginning of his more knowing manhood. This quick comparison with Balzac’s novel, a work rarely faulted for its lack of character psychology or viewed as appealing primarily to adolescent boys, leaves one wondering why the two books have long occupied such very different positions in the literary canon. Perhaps it is the liberal, joyful inclusion of humor, the immoderate feasting, and the clashing of swords that diminishes the prestige of Dumas’s work in the minds of some.

To be sure, Balzac’s novel is considerably shorter than Dumas’s and is devoid of the lengthy interpolations (for example, the story of Milady’s imprisonment) that temporarily divert attention away from the hero’s growing understanding of the complex codes and relationships that are key to his future success. Modern critics, who tend to prefer brevity and who may fail to note the pertinence of these episodes to the overall design of Dumas’s novel, may grow impatient with such elements of the text, finding them either old-fashioned or superfluous. While such a view is mistaken, it might account for some of the scholarly disdain to which Dumas’s work is still occasionally subject despite its enduring popularity with readers.

Then, too, the myth that has grown up around Balzac—a myth most notably embodied in Rodin’s statue of the man—often paints him as a solitary genius who spent long nights in monk-like garb writing and revising his texts. Such an image coincides perfectly with our modern conception of the artist as an intensely focused, singularly original creator. The truth is more complex, however, for Balzac, like Dumas, lived a full and varied life and accumulated massive debts in the process. Dumas, though, worked with a collaborator—Auguste Maquet—a face he openly acknowledged, even though his signature alone appeared on the text. Much has been made of this collaboration, which has been used to dismiss Dumas’s genius and to deny him literary paternity of his works. Some of this criticism no doubt reflects our modern bias in favor of individual (versus collaborative) composition. Some of it reflects a misappraisal of Dumas’s talents and Maquet’s contributions, and some seems to have been motivated by racism—Dumas’s father was born on a plantation in Haiti, the son of a black slave and her white master, a minor French nobleman.
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The work of serious contemporary scholars like Claude Schopp, who have examined the extant portions of Maquet’s drafts for
The Three Musketeers,
make it clear, however, that the text that has enthralled generations of readers is most definitely Dumas’s.

Although it is Dumas’s adventuresome heroes who generally garner most readers’ attention, the infamous Milady—a.k.a. Anne de Breuil, Milady de Winter, Charlotte Backson, and Lady Clarick—is just as important a figure. Beautiful, ruthless, intelligent, and determined, she is D‘Artagnan’s principal antagonist in
The Three Musketeers
and one of Cardinal Richelieu’s secret agents. Variously described as a tigress, a lioness, a panther, and a serpent, she uses every means at her disposal to gain her ends and attack her enemies. Actress and seductress, she has an uncanny ability to see into the hearts and minds of her victims. A bigamist as well (she has married both Athos and Lord de Winter’s brother), she has led her husbands and other men astray and destroyed their lives. Some critics have taken the character of Milady as proof of the misogynistic nature of Dumas’s novel, though such a view is hard to credit given Dumas’s personal affection for women. To be sure, like Marguerite de Bourgogne in Dumas’s 1832 drama,
La Tour de Nesle (The Tower of Nesle),
Milady conforms to the nineteenth-century stereotype that portrayed some women as diabolical and treacherous creatures.
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Promiscuous, powerful, and/or profligate, such women were seen as a threat to (patriarchal) society, to the family, and even to the nation. In
The Three Musketeers,
Milady very clearly represents a danger to these fundamentally male-centered institutions and relationships, and so it comes as no real surprise that, in the end, she must die. The fact that Milady is also responsible for the death of Constance Bonacieux—the woman D’Artagnan loves—is, of course, a further and more romantic rationale for her execution. (Constance herself embodies another stereotype, that of women as angels and/or innocent victims.)

Dumas’s deployment of this stereotypical vision of the diabolical woman is, I believe, no different from his use of the conventions of the Bildungsroman, the historical novel, or Gothic fiction. By adopting the gender stereotypes of his day, Dumas is not so much expressing a hatred of women as he is conforming to the expectations of his audience. The cliché he sets out here helps his readers to make sense of and situate his novel within the parameters of their prior literary and cultural experiences. Consider, for instance, Milady’s reaction to the insulting letter she receives from “De Wardes.” Although she grinds her teeth, turns “the color of ashes,” and collapses into an armchair after reading that missive, Milady quickly rebuffs the ministrations of her maid.

This passage first bows to and then plays against the fainting scene that novelists so often assign to a woman who has been affronted or abandoned by her lover.
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It immediately dismisses the notion that Milady is, after all, a typically weak female and insists instead on “her iron will” (p. 413).
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It also prepares and makes plausible her aggressive reaction, in chapter 37, to D‘Artagnan’s discovery of the fleur de lis branded on her shoulder. On that occasion, the narrator tells us, “She turned upon him, no longer like a furious woman, but like a wounded panther” and, taking in hand “a small poniard ... threw herself with a bound upon D’Artagnan” (p. 417).
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Of course, the comparison of a violent woman to a wild beast is yet another cliché, but one that is perfectly logical and appropriate here given Milady’s well-established sense of self-preservation and her fierce determination to seek revenge against those who would dominate or insult her.
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It is, I think, no accident that Dumas gives Milady a “manlike soul in that frail and delicate body” (p. 558) or that, having killed off his villainess at the end of
The Three Musketeers,
he replaces her, in
Twenty Years After,
with a masculine double—her son, Mordaunt.
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If we are to believe in D‘Artagnan’s heroism, his intelligence, and his courage, the young man must have a worthy opponent against whom to test himself and in contrast to whom he can display his noble qualities.
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In
The Three Musketeers,
the contest between D’Artagnan and Milady is not about sex or social positioning. It is about politics, honor, and power. The conflict between these two characters begins, as we have seen, with their parallel efforts to recover the diamond studs Queen Anne gave to Buckingham. That event establishes once and for all the rivalry and the antithetical equivalence between the valorous, if inexperienced, youth and the perfidious, perceptive, and cunning woman. It also leads, with an inexorable sureness born of Dumas’s narrative skill, to their final confrontation on the banks of the River Lys and to D‘Artagnan’s charitable tears.
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I would argue, in fact, that it is because we are as fully persuaded of Milady’s villainy and egotism as we are of D’Artagnan’s decency and courage that we continue to read, believe in, and be moved by this remarkable novel.

The Three Musketeers
is not without its flaws and inconsistencies—D’ Artagnan is twice made a Musketeer, as if Dumas has forgotten having done this a first time, and the chronology is at times fuzzy. The book does, however, offer readers a wonderful tale of spirit and adventure, of character, honor, and humor. It is also an unforgettable paean to friendship. “All for one and one for all” is more than just a slogan; it is a pledge of support and mutual assistance, of caring and sharing the burdens and the joys of life. Born of conflict—D‘Artagnan is set to duel each of the three Musketeers—the relationship the young D’Artagnan forges with Athos, Porthos, and Aramis is vital to the success of his efforts to recover the diamond studs and to all his other undertakings. His three friends teach him lessons about life, love, dignity, integrity, sacrifice, commitment, and courage, but also about respect, indulgence, compassion, vanity, hypocrisy, and suffering. Their generosity is legendary and is both practical and selfless.34 When one has money, all share it if there is a need. When all have funds, each uses his purse as he sees fit. Personal skills, servants, and other relationships are likewise employed for the individual or the common good, as circumstances demand.

As closely tied as they are, however, each of these four men has his own personality, qualities, ambitions, and cares. Chapter 67 makes this clear one last time. Arrested at the behest of the Cardinal, D‘Artagnan is accompanied to Richelieu’s quarters by the same true friends who had escorted him on his journey to England. But, just as the final stages of that earlier trip were made alone, D’Artagnan must now confront the Cardinal on his own. The young man, harrowed by the death of his beloved Constance and by the execution of Milady, is convinced that he will be condemned to die, but he goes bravely forward. He hands Richelieu the carte blanche Athos had taken from Milady—it reads: “It is by my order and for the good of the state that the bearer of this has done what he has done. RICHELIEU” (p. 695)—but he does not expect to be spared punishment.

After a time, however, the Cardinal offers him, in exchange for that document, a lieutenant’s commission in the Musketeers with the name of the holder of that rank left blank. Later, D‘Artagnan offers the commission to each of his friends in turn. They all refuse it. Porthos will instead be married to his rich benefactress, who is now widowed; Aramis will enter holy orders; Athos will continue to drink and, for a time, to fight. It is Athos who finally writes D’Artagnan’s name on the commission. The promotion, which once would have brought D’Artagnan great joy, leaves him despondent.

Time may not heal all wounds, but neither time nor distance will diminish the friendship of these four men or the affection that readers feel for them all. D’Artagnan and Dumas have thrilled and enthralled people across generations and around the globe. There is a generosity of spirit and a wealth of human understanding in this book that will never go out of fashion. It therefore seems appropriate that, in 2002, on the two-hundredth anniversary of his birth, Dumas was reburied in the Pantheon, the monument to and final resting place of some of the foremost contributors to France’s history and cultural glory. New, wide-ranging studies of Dumas’s works have recently begun to appear and publication of his complete correspondence is planned for the near future.
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These, together with editions of his novels, plays, and other writings that are once more in print, should lead to a fuller and more richly nuanced understanding of and appreciation for the life and the genius of this multi-talented literary titan.

 

Barbara T. Cooper is
Professor of French at the University of New Hampshire. She is a member of the editorial boards of
Nineteenth-Century French Studies
and the
Cahiers Alexandre Dumas.
She specializes in nineteenth-century French drama and in works by Dumas. Cooper was the editor of a volume on French dramatists from 1789 to 1914 that is part of the
Dictionary
of Literary Biography series and wrote the essay on Dumas in that volume. She has also coedited two volumes of essays on nineteenth-century French literature and culture, and is the author of more than fifty scholarly articles on works of nineteenth-century French literature, many of which focus on texts by Dumas. In 2002 she participated in several colloquia marking the bicentennial of Dumas’s birth. Cooper, who holds her Ph.D. from the University of Wisconsin-Madison, was named a Chevalier dans l’Ordre des Palmes Académiques by the French government in 1994 for her contributions to the promotion and propagation of French culture.