The Adventures of Monsieur de La Donaree the Musketeer

A Lady Stolen. A Kingdom Crossed. A Blade Driven by Love.

Step into the year 1667—a time of chivalry, betrayal, and high-stakes adventure.

Monsieur Paul, Vicomte de La Donaree is a freshly minted member of King Louis XIV’s elite King's Musketeers. Armed with legendary skill and an unbreakable sense of honor, his world is shattered when the love of his life, the breathtaking Madame Charlotte de La Rose, is mysteriously abducted from the heart of Paris and smuggled across the English Channel.

Driven by an oath to follow her to the ends of the earth, Donaree plunges headfirst into a deadly game of international intrigue. From the shadowy streets of London to the treacherous, rebel-filled forests of England, his quest will push him onto the open sea to clash with fierce pirates, and down toward the rugged coasts of Spain.

But the conspiracy runs deeper than a simple kidnapping. Trailed by a vengeful challenger from a baffling morning duel (from the first chapter), Donaree must unravel a tangled web of jealousy and secret alliances before time runs out for his lady—all connected to that mysterious duel.

Why readers love The Adventures of Monsieur de La Donaree the Musketeer:

• Classic Swashbuckling Spirit: Recaptures the grand tradition of Alexandre Dumas and the cinematic magic of golden-age Hollywood cinema.

• Masterful Blade-Work: Richly detailed, breathless fencing encounters that will keep your pulse pounding.

• Rich Historical Flavor: Includes an immersive historical introduction that brings the true, legendary world of the Mousquetaires du Roi to vibrant life.

• The Perfect Blend: A magnificent tapestry of sweeping romance, unguessable mystery, lighthearted comedy, and high-stakes drama.

He has the blade. He has the courage. But will he be in time? 

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THE INTRODUCTION

It is the year of our Lord 1667, the place is Paris, France, and it’s a time of chivalry, betrayal, romance, intrigue, and great adventure. And yet, while the exploration of this colorful world of swashbuckling cavaliers is soon to be experienced, it is proper and conclusive to impart knowledge to the reader of a subject whereof few individuals know the true origin and history. Therefore, with this unfortunate mishap of historical neglect in mind, and confident that the subject might be introduced in as concise yet informative a manner as possible, I shall boldly paint a gallant portrait, in order to answer a somewhat difficult, and sometimes confusing question, which asks: “Who and what are Musketeers?” And to provide, as a sweet, rewarding pleasure, a historical background to this subject.

With this in mind, dear reader, please make yourself comfortable, in whichever manner that pleases thee, and forget presently your modern world of easy comforts; for, I shall tell you of a day when action-ready and honorable men wore elaborate costumes—and, of a time when a long sword hung at their side.

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

In the mid-to-late fifteenth century, the invention of firearms brought about a new age of warfare, and the operators of these unique inventions were given names to accompany their new weapons. Therefore, naturally, the men who wielded the musket firearm, which instrument came a century later, became known as musketeers. However, the basic function of this early infantry musketeer was to act only as a foot soldier. Being surrounded, boxed in, and protected by pikemen—wielders of pikes, which were long spears—these musketeers, along with the pikemen, created a formation called a phalanx: a small unit of soldiers forming a square whose position remained steadfast throughout the battle.

But, this unique phalanx formation was first created and used by ancient Greek soldiers, who called themselves Hoplites. By lowering their spears, the Hoplites would march forward in tight formation and pierce their enemies as they advanced. Then, as history informs us, this formation was later adapted by Roman soldiers, who copied the ingenious Hoplites. But, when the formation was practiced and perfected by the famous Swiss Pikemen of the Middle Ages, the Swiss decided to keep the formation stationary without marching; they stood their ground while charging knights were dismounted from their steeds by these long pikes before the horsemen could draw near the foot soldiers. And so, the musketeer is, as was the archer before him, protected by the phalanx formation of the pikemen, who surrounded him with their long pikes and stood their ground as demonstrated by the Swiss.

At the turn of the seventeenth century, the formation of musket and pike had drastically changed for the better. Similar to the archer a few hundred years beforehand, three units of infantry musketeers stood within the middle of the pikemen squares. After one unit fired their muskets, they retired to the rear of the line to reload while the second unit moved forward. By the time the third unit discharged their weapons, the first unit was ready to fire anew.

Of course, this method is much improved in this latter half of the seventeenth century—the precise era that we now visit. The musketeers now possess three units who fire simultaneously. This tactic proceeds as thus: one musketeer stands, one stoops, and the third man kneels. An entire line of muskets can fire in this fashion, delivering a formidable volley of musket balls at a tremendous rate, all at the same instant.

And, just who are these musketeers firing at? Field-pieces and heavy cannon can crush large units of infantry from a distance; however, there are fast-moving targets that cannot easily be picked off by a cannonball. These targets are cavalrymen: horsemen—the knights of yesterday—who found it difficult to ride in heavy armor; which, in any event, a musket ball can pierce. Therefore, stripped of most armor, the cavalrymen charge these phalanx units of pikemen and musketeers with pistol and sword in hopes of demolishing, little by little, this formidable formation. The musketeers, in this manner, strive to pick off the cavalry, who are a constant menace to the infantry. And, while the musketeer may be unprotected—if a shot has gone wide of the approaching target—the pikeman will thereupon defend the musketeer by pointing his pike toward the horseman.

By the end of this century (a great help to the student of this study), the bayonet had been invented. Fixed onto the muzzle of the musket to serve as a spear, it allows the musketeer to become his own pikeman and protect himself from cavalry. Therefore, an age-old practice of warfare—the pikeman, and the usage of his service—was eventually rendered obsolete, failing to endure into the eighteenth century.

Infantry musketeers are common to all military branches of Europe. So long as a foot soldier carries and operates a musket upon a battlefield, he is referred to as a musketeer. However, the French nation, which we visit in this tale, possesses its own special corps of Musketeers whose primary purpose, among other duties—such as fighting in sieges and campaigns—is to act as a bodyguard for their sovereign king. Serving in this position, as the foremost of His Majesty’s Guards, the Musketeers protect the King whenever he chooses to leave his palace, and accompany him as an escort wherever he decides to go. They are the corps d’élite of France; they have become known as the Mousquetaires du Roi (the King’s Musketeers). These men are young daredevils who are brave, courageous, quick-witted, hot-headed, quick to take offense, unrivaled masters of the blade, and crack-shots with their muskets; they are loved by some, hated by many, and are ever seeking adventures to satisfy their hunger for dangerous excitement. The best, and only the best, may wear the famous tunic of this legendary band.

They were first formed in the year 1600 by King Henri IV and were handed, instead of the musket, a carbine firearm; whereupon they were called the Carabiniers du Roi (the King’s Carabineers). It was not, however, until Louis XIII came to power—Henri’s son—that the band, re-formed in 1622 and handed the new flintlock musket, became known as Musketeers. These first Musketeers were composed of one hundred men, and a gentleman by the name of Monsieur de Montalet became their capitaine-lieutenant, for the King himself held the position of capitaine-commandant.

In 1634, the famous Monsieur de Tréville was appointed capitaine-lieutenant. And, before they were disbanded in 1646, they had grown to one hundred and fifty strong, maintaining a sous-lieutenant, a cornet, two sergeant-majors, a quartermaster-sergeant, a trumpeter, and a farrier. All these men together composed one company, and their pay consisted of a low thirty-five sous a day.

Their headquarters, styled Musketeer Headquarters, was a large hôtel located in the rue de Tournon—a very busy street in Paris. The rue de Tournon lies near the rue de Vaugirard, the rue du Vieux-Colombier, the Place Saint-Sulpice, and, most importantly, it is situated exceedingly close to the palace and beautiful gardens of the Luxembourg. The entire courtyard of the hôtel resembled a small army camp, and was filled, from six o’clock in the morning in summer and eight o’clock in winter, with loud, boastful Musketeers.

In 1657, after a decade of silence following their disbandment, the eighteen-year-old King Louis XIV had re-established the band of Musketeers and appointed Cardinal Mazarin’s fifteen-year-old nephew, the Duc de Nevers, as his capitaine-lieutenant. The company was then given the permanent name of Grand Musketeers. In November of that same year, the entire company was provided with grey horses, whereupon they became known as Mousquetaires Gris (Grey Musketeers). In 1660, a second company of these Guards was formed for the King from Cardinal Mazarin’s foot Musketeers; this band, holding a lower status than the first company, was given, just three years later, black horses to ride—earning them the title, naturally, of Mousquetaires Noirs (Black Musketeers).

Being absent most of the time and caring little for what became of his soldiers, the Duke de Nevers provided them a welcome turn of fortune when he stepped aside and yielded the commanding position to his sous-lieutenant, whom the soldiers already regarded as their true leader. And so, in this year of 1667, Monsieur Charles d’Artagnan takes the reins as capitaine-lieutenant.

If the name d’Artagnan sounds familiar, it is no wonder, for he is the hero of the famous romance classic, The Three Musketeers, by Alexandre Dumas. D’Artagnan indeed existed in the flesh, and it is to this true historical personage that our tale refers, rather than the fictional counterpart that Dumas gave to the world.

Becoming a Musketeer is no easy task. The simplest path to admittance into the corps is to serve at least two years in a less favored company, such as the regular Guards. But even then, after serving this two-year apprenticeship, a man must be well-skilled and have fought in some campaign so as to acquire firsthand experience in the art of war. The swiftest way to enter the corps, however, is to perform an outstanding act of bravery or derring-do. To be a Musketeer is the highest honor a common soldier can receive in all France, and bearing their mantle is the root of popularity and respect. Today, several hundred soldiers fill the ranks; they are loud, strong, courageous, feared, and respected. Even the late Armand-Jean du Plessis, Cardinal Richelieu—that political genius who ruled France from behind the throne, a man who had nations trembling before him—had nothing but true admiration, despite his hatred, for these men who fear neither life nor death.

As their officers reside in quarters provided at Musketeer Headquarters, the rest—hundreds of men—were instructed to find lodgings elsewhere; they found them in civilian apartments and boarding houses. Their reputation and manners, however, are as fiery as their name, for most are gentlemen in title only, not in deed. Many of these soldiers are merely overgrown children who stay up into the late hours of the night getting drunk upon wine, singing songs of battle, and taking liberties with the local tavern maids. These disturbances cause a considerable commotion, demanding reparation, so new lodgings are now provided for these soldiers in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. It is somewhat cramped: one room for two soldiers, furnished with two beds. But, Musketeers always have their servants, so two Musketeers sleep in one bed while their servants sleep in the other. If a soldier wishes to seek lodgings elsewhere, he may—but, at his own expense.

Furthermore, there are Musketeers who ignore the edict against dueling, constantly drawing their swords in the name of love or insult. This presents a terrible problem as well. The King issued this edict because he considers dueling to be in poor taste. The punishment for this crime, however, is most severe . . . How severe? . . . Well, the genius Cardinal de Richelieu, who enforced this law many years ago, left us with a perfect example: a cavalier, having been found guilty of dueling, was sentenced to have his head kindly removed. A fine example, thanks to the Red Minister.

But, alas!, during the 1620’s and 1630’s, Cardinal Richelieu would secretly encourage his Guards to fight the Musketeers, while King Louis XIII would secretly urge his Musketeers to fight the Cardinal’s Guards. It was an almost comical situation that often ended in bloodshed. But, it is not so with King Louis XIV, the sovereign of this present day, who does not indulge in such secrecy. He does, however, uphold the former Minister’s policy on punishment. However, and despite those soldiers who constantly disturb the peace, there does remain some—if only a handful—who are not so unruly.

The uniform of a Musketeer is so elaborate that it catches the eye of every bystander. This uniform begins with a magnificent mantle possessing the breathtaking color of sky-blue. As it hangs from his shoulders, the mantle falls just below the hips, covering the chest, the back, and both arms of the cavalier. This sky-blue fabric, serving as the foundation, displays four large crosses—one upon the chest, one upon the back, and one upon each arm—embroidered in beautiful silver thread. As the cross represents the King, it terminates into golden fleur-de-lis, symbolizing the power of God, King, and Country. Giving this mantle a delicately finished touch is a thin, sheer silver lace that completely covers its exterior, catching the glint of the sun with the cavalier’s slightest movement. Underneath this blue covering, a white silk shirt is worn.

The hat, which is of a darker blue, flows with yellow plumes; the breeches, being of the same color as the hat, feature two bands of yellow running down each side of the legs; the boots, bearing the aforementioned darker blue, are decorated with handsome silver buckles; and, finally, dark blue gloves complete the uniform, styled to match the mantle. Thus, the complete palette of this Musketeer’s garb consists of sky-blue, royal blue, yellow, silver, and gold.

On rare occasions, certain Musketeers do not wear their military dress if they believe an excuse will grant them leave, affording young nobles an opportunity to display their expensive civilian attire to ladies of distinction. But, the only time all wear this uniform in unison is upon occasions such as battles, sieges, campaigns, wars, or for a grand parade, allowing the cavalier to command respectful gazes while marching along, or to appear majestic upon his prancing mount. It is the fashion of this day and age to be as boastful in color and dress as it is with loud, courageous speech.

Almost the entire army of France—eighty to ninety percent—is composed of Gascons. Gascony, being a vast province located in southern France, produces men of courage and fearlessness rarely seen elsewhere in Europe. Even Captain d’Artagnan himself is a Gascon, and his career—especially his past exploits—is painted so full of adventure and bravado that it is a life, as many believe, that only a Gascon could lead: such Gasconade adventures. But, the hero of our romance, our own Monsieur de La Donaree, is not of Gascon descent: he belongs to that remaining ten or twenty percent of soldiers who hail from the western, northern, and eastern provinces of France—distinct from that brash southern breed—who are men who wish to prove their worth, showing all of Paris—and, indeed, all of France—that one need not possess a southern upbringing to be brave and fearless, and can be a vital contribution to this so-called Gascon army of France.

Therefore, in conclusion, it may well be said that a large portion of France’s history is attributable to the King’s Musketeers. Although history can sometimes be cruel, often forgetting the role the Musketeers have played, this story—as it unfolds with plot, suspense, surprises, and outright adventure—serves as our way to remedy that neglect.

Chapter 1: Duel

“En garde!” is cried, as two long, flat blades slowly cross, and come to a freezing halt.

The French duelists glare into each other’s eyes, and their gaze turns into a, seemingly, unbreakable stare. As one adversary’s heart starts to beat with a mad passion, sweat begins forming on his brow, while his teeth grit with anxiety. His opponent, however, stands as a statue: firm and majestic, with an unconcerned look in his eyes. This expression, which is quite hard to miss, only increases the other man’s agitation, as it grows immensely within his shaking frame. His nervous body is slightly bent forward, and his left arm lightly lingers behind him in the air. But, the other man stands upright and tall: his left arm is bent at the elbow, whilst his fisted hand rests upon his side.

After what seems an eternity of waiting for the nervous fellow, the confident swordsman finally announces: “Begin!”

Immediately, in this split second, the restless man takes a ferocious lunge at his opponent—missing him by only a hair’s breadth. His target, though, parries exceedingly well. The two steel swords are now unleashed with lightning speed, causing, as they clash and strike, a sharp ringing sound that carries a considerable distance across the open field. The two men who wield these weapons continue staring into one another’s eyes, careful not to miss a single expression or passing thought—a vigilance that may prove vital for the defense of one’s skin in anticipating what the adversary’s next movement shall be.

But, this battle tactic, for the tense fellow, is executed in vain, because the other duelist, as we observe, remains an unyielding statue with a thoroughly unreadable expression. For the swordsman of confidence, however, this tactic is easily accomplished, as the anxious expressions of his dueling partner vary tremendously, written deeply in his eyes and manifested all over his face. Nevertheless, bravado is greatly displayed on both sides; even though one man is shaken, he demonstrates no small measure of courage.

All around the duelists can be seen the breaking of a new day. On the horizon, the sun begins slowly to rise—revealing, little by little, an open grassy valley adorned with magnificent trees. Off in the distance appear rolling hills and far-off groves, looking as though painted upon a vast canvas background, giving the illusion of flowing mountains hazed by the early morning mist. Numerous birds sing with enthusiasm, as though thanking God for granting them another beautiful morning to live and be free. Late-night clouds of grey quickly vanish, giving place to their lighter and brighter cousins who clearly favor the morning sun. The various small creatures that inhabit these fields begin their daily routine of gathering forage. And, finally, the valley is completely bathed in the golden light of dawn, signaling to every living thing that the day has truly begun.

But, though we admire these wonders of nature, we must return to our two duelists, both eager to claim the day—and, we do so with heightened anticipation. Even while temporarily drawn away into those quiet reaches of greenery and sunshine, we heard, though miles distant, the desperate clashing of two blades engaged in fierce combat. We return, therefore, with eager attention to their advances, looking upon this spectacle with the keenest interest.

Slashing and parrying, the swords fly so fast that the blades themselves become nearly invisible, reduced to shimmering streaks of light. The bodies of the two men sway back and forth at a tremendous pace, each duelist maintaining total concentration as he executes his skill to the utmost of his ability. Their technique is formidable, and their mastery superb.

Keeping proper footing at such a juncture is paramount. Should an opponent step forward or retreat improperly, he risks losing his balance to the turf. However, the greatest focus is not reserved solely for the placement of the feet, nor is it wise to fix one’s gaze upon the blur of flying steel; rather, a decisive victory is achieved by maintaining a firm, concentrated stare upon the head—and, particularly to the eyes of one’s foe. Now, if either of these gentlemen were to lock his eyes onto the swift streaks of the two blades, attempting to trace every stroke—which, in any event, is impossible—he would surrender his advantage and lose command over his own weapon. Thus, as we observe these two masters at work, if a man were not trained to perfection, and if he failed to concentrate with his whole mind, he might forfeit his life to a single, unseen error.

A thrust is delivered—one man lunges forward; a parry is the other’s instant response: a maneuver that deflects the invading point. Then follows the riposte—a swift thrust directly following the parry. The breathtaking duel seems to have no end, yet soon it must draw to a close, and a victor must emerge. But, who shall this victor be? It appears obvious that the confident gentleman should prevail; yet, his shaken opponent might well overcome his nerves and land a decisive blow.

The moments pass . . . the swords clash on . . . and, the man who, from the outset, entertained fearful thoughts within his mind, begins to lose what little resolve remains to him. Gathering his strength in a desperate surge of resolve—feeling that the critical moment has arrived—he unleashes his blade, directing its sharp point straight toward his opponent’s heart in hopes that it will find its mark and sink into the man’s chest.

He gives his thrust.

And, as though his efforts were those of a mere novice, his target simply steps aside, causing the lunging swordsman to lose his footing and fall toward the dirt. But, just an instant before his body strikes the turf, he cleverly maneuvers himself so that he lands facing his opponent. Upon impact, however, his right hand, holding the sword with the pommel downward, strikes a broad stone half-hidden in the grass; the weapon slips instantly from his grip and ricochets away, rolling across the ground until it comes to a stop at the feet of his dreaded adversary.

The fallen man holds his breath in terror, glaring up into the eyes of the man who now holds total mastery over his life. As sweat pours from his brow and his fingers claw nervously at the grass, the discomfited fellow trembles violently.

“You have dropped your sword,” the other nonchalantly observes.

Then, with a single fluid motion, he slides his boot beneath the fallen weapon near the guard and deftly flips it through the air directly into the hands of his astonished opponent.

Without a word, the man, who had been disarmed, leaps to his feet and resumes the contest; but, his movement is now wild, his technique sloppy, and his accuracy ruined. Having lost his composure entirely, he looks as though he stares directly into the face of death. His lips quiver, his throat tightens, and—just as he inwardly anticipated—he falls with a sword thrust through his torso.

“Just . . . get it over with quickly,” he mumbles, pleading with the victor as he clutches his wound and closes his eyes.

The winner of the match cleans his blood-stained blade by thrusting its point several times into the earth. Once the steel is clear, he sheathes it with a quiet click.

He turns to the fallen man and says: “It has pained me to wound you in the first place; I intend not to further dishonor myself by doing away with you entirely. You have insulted me, it is true—but, it was a matter that I should have dismissed altogether. Instead, I lost my head to anger. Fortunately, however, you are still alive, and the wound is not deep. As a token of my anger, you have received this mark from my blade; but, as a token of my apology for delivering it, allow me to defray the cost of whatever treatment the surgeon must presently provide.”

Unfastening his doublet, he reaches within, withdraws several gold coins, and tosses them upon the grass beside the bewildered man. Without another word, the victor turns and departs from the field, leaving behind a wounded, thoroughly discomforted, and astonished adversary.

And now, let us walk with the victor following his departure, and see where his steps shall lead him... 

Chapter 2: The Life of a Musketeer

After having endured so harsh an ordeal in such an aggressive duel, the victor, immediately following his departure, heads straight toward his apartment. The confrontation has transpired so rapidly that it leaves his mind spinning, causing him to wonder what could have provoked so desperate a battle, and for what cause two men had sought to slay one another. Being somewhat perplexed upon reviewing the details of the morning bout, he cannot readily discern the answer. So, throughout his journey homeward, he constantly endeavors to unravel the small puzzle in his mind.

By the time he reaches his destination, a nearby clock strikes half past six in the morning. He enters his apartment, shuts the door behind him, and proceeds directly toward a chair—into which he practically collapses. Immediately upon this descent, his thoughts, as they did along the way, become clouded with intense speculation. Why has this man, who appeared to be a noble, challenged him to combat? He does not even know the gentleman. Yet, he knows—or, at least believes he knows—that he did not wrong the stranger in any manner to justify such violent anger.

As his thoughts progress, he begins to recall the sequence of events that led to the confrontation. While merely walking the streets on the previous evening, his adversary bumped into him—an act that seemed entirely deliberate. And, rather than offering an apology for this apparent blunder, the man instead began cursing the one he had jostled.

“Excuse me?” roared the challenged party. “But, you, sir, bumped into me!”

“Are you calling me a liar?” bellowed the other in return, with bitter disdain and sarcasm. “I say that you ran into me, and without offering an apology. Instead, you presume to call me a liar.”

“I resent that,” said the young man, his anger steadily rising.

Without another word, the challenger tore off his left glove and struck it across the face of his opponent. Upon pure instinct, the young man reached to draw his sword.

“No, not in this place, if you please!” spat the challenger. “I shall not run the risk of arrest merely for the pleasure of killing you.”

“Pleasure, is it? Where and when?”

"At a secluded spot just outside the city walls, which I shall show you. We can first meet here, at this very corner, and just before dawn on the morrow."

“You may count upon your life that I shall be here!”

“Why, you possess a laughable bravery. You are far too young for such quarrelsome boasts. Already, in my fifty-eight years, I have slain twenty men in duels.”

“Remembering the good old days, are you? Well, cherish them, my friend; for, they say that the memory, in so ripe an age as yours, is the first treasure to depart.”

The elder knit his brows heavily at this mocking gesture.

“I am not so young as you may suppose, my ripe, old friend,” the young man continued. “Let not this youthful exterior deceive your failing eyes. My years upon this earth may appear brief to one as ancient as yourself, but I am no timid adolescent: twenty-two years am I.”

“Whelp!” the challenger screeched. “Your vain, youthful tongue shall be the first member severed from your childish body!”

“Until tomorrow then, my ancient friend,” said the young man, bowing low. “I pray your heart does not fail you before the dawn. The night is closing in, and your rest is required if you hope to walk onto the field of honor.”

The challenger quickly turned away, lest his fury overtake him and compel him to destroy this unbearable youth before morning.

But, what followed on the next day seemed to the young man altogether extraordinary: the seemingly valiant individual who had issued the challenge had, by the following morning, transformed into a shaken and trembling creature once the field of battle had been reached. This sudden alteration is what confuses the young man’s mind above all else; it was, and remains, completely beyond his comprehension. Yet, one thing is certain: despite appearing beside himself with dread, the man fully intended to proceed with the duel.

As we have seen, however, the elder lost the contest, and this unfortunate outcome has somewhat moved the victor. Not only has the young man’s anger—which had burned since the previous evening—completely vanished, but he now feels a genuine pity for the older gentleman. By casting the coins at his feet, however, he feels somewhat reconciled regarding the wound he was forced to deliver.

Still, what was the true reason for the duel in the first place? The collision was undoubtedly intentional on the part of the elder man; yet, the true motive behind the challenge remains a total mystery.

“Perhaps time shall reveal the answer,” the young man murmurs to himself. “But, it is now clear that he sought my death for some purpose that I cannot fathom. I know but few people in Paris, for my arrival here is quite recent—less than three years.”

After an hour of such reflections, the young man, weary from the strain of the morning encounter, falls asleep; and, contrary to his usual habit, sleeps through the entire day without stirring.

Now, while this young man slumbers, I—the teller of this tale—invite you, dear reader, who stand with me in his apartment, to walk about and observe the contents of his living quarters, that we may discover precisely who this young man is who has struck so resonant a chord in our lives. It is most fitting that we learn of him deeply; for, throughout the remainder of this extraordinary narrative, he shall fill our days with ever-increasing excitement until the dramatic climax is reached—a spectacle we shall boldly witness together. Therefore, for the moment, place your hand in mine, and let us explore what may be learned.

His apartment, which is situated upon the rue des Fossoyeurs, merely two blocks from Saint-Sulpice, consists of a small anteroom, a grand salon, and a spacious bedchamber. These quarters are exceedingly beautiful, noble, and spacious, with even the outer door adorned in gilded fleur-de-lis. Upon stepping into the antechamber, one might easily imagine oneself in royal lodgings. Placed in the center of the salon is a magnificent royal-blue carpet, upon which sit two large matching armchairs—in one of which our young man now slumbers. The chairs face a stone fireplace framed by a carved oak mantle. On the eastern side of the room stands a delicate Swiss escritoire with a small chair set before it; upon the desk rests a quill dipped in an inkwell, flanked by clean sheets of writing paper.

The bedchamber holds a grand bed set upon another carpet—this one embroidered with golden thread. A massive chest, a sitting chair, and a high window decorate the northern wall; nearby stands a wardrobe filled with attire of the most refined appearance. The anteroom features small benches for waiting guests, and two oil paintings of martial scenes adorn its walls. The entire residence, taken as a whole, displays a taste for the utmost luxury.

And, who is this young man who occupies so fine an apartment? Who is this gentleman whom we visit in our tale? This, dear friends, as you already know, is Monsieur de La Donaree.

And, how does the hero of our tale appear? His eyes are dark, yet gentle; his features are handsome, bearing a serene and honest countenance; his complexion is fair, lightly bronzed by the sun; above his lips he wears a thin, neatly trimmed moustache; beneath, a narrow beard extends just below the chin; his thick, wavy, light brown hair falls casually to his shoulders and is maintained with meticulous care—a care that his entire person, in every detail, receives full advantage. He is a man of impressive stature: his arms display well-formed muscle, his chest is broad, and his shoulders are straight and powerful—a formidable figure of a man. Though born with a serious nature, he frequently finds joy in the pleasantries of life.

Monsieur Donaree, who attained the rank of Musketeer merely two months ago, is no ordinary soldier. As we shall observe, fortune has kindly smiled upon him, endowing his name with great wealth. His family, acquiring considerable riches, purchased nobility for the house of Donaree in the early half of the sixteenth century; and, gold has ever since flowed freely from the purses of this affluent lineage.

Donaree was born on the twenty-fifth day of November, in the year 1645, in Normandy, at the city of Rouen, situated approximately twenty leagues northwest of Paris. Normandy—the cradle of those Normans who once conquered the Saxons of Old England—is a land of extraordinary natural beauty, and a most delightful place to visit in the spring when vibrant green pours from its grassy fields and flourishes in abundance among its varied trees.

Donaree’s childhood, which he looks back upon with great satisfaction, was vastly different from that of an ordinary youth of the realm. His upbringing was rich beyond what most children could ever dream. Where other boys were tasked with feeding whatever farm animals their families could afford and laboring over daily chores, Donaree’s father kept his son in constant preparation for battle. He instructed him in the proper etiquette of the king's court, while filling his head with a profound amount of schooling.

In France at this time, many citizens suffer great poverty and cannot afford to send their children to the modest schools that serve the local parishes. If a town is fortunate, a tutor may establish a school for those capable of paying; but, times being harsh, most families require their children’s labor in the fields, leaving many to grow to manhood without the knowledge of reading or writing. This, however, was not the case for Donaree. Rather than sending him to a local school, his father summoned a private tutor all the way from Paris to instruct his only child in poetry, geometry, mathematics, Latin, the natural sciences, astronomy, and history. Imagine the effect of such learning upon a young mind: it rendered him thoughtful and composed. For this reason, he rarely speaks unless spoken to, placing the utmost importance upon thoughtful reflection. His intelligence extends far past that of an ordinary soldier, for his education reaches a level fitting a prince of the royal blood.

Not only did Donaree’s father send for a school tutor, but he engaged a fencing instructor as well. This instructor, being the best to be had in Paris, was known to have given lessons to King Louis XIII on occasion. Having been taught from childhood, Donaree has learned moves—and, invented several of his own—that can outwit the greatest fencers in the known world. To this day, there is yet to be anyone to match his blade. Perhaps he is the best swordsman in France—perhaps the best in all Europe. But, one thing can truthfully be said about Donaree’s character, and blessed is he because of it: even though he has received advantages no ordinary person could hope for in a lifetime, he has become a generous and God-fearing man, and he feels that he is no way above others.

His first name is hardly known to anyone in Paris. When he signed on as a cadet, he recorded his name simply as Donaree. Therefore, everyone called him Monsieur Donaree, until it was learned that he is of noble birth; so, now, he is known as Monsieur de La Donaree. But, Paul is his first name. So, being an only child, and destined to assume the Château Donaree after his father’s death, his full name is Monsieur Paul, Vicomte de La Donaree. But, his rank of viscount is practically unknown to anyone. On the day of his father’s death, Donaree will automatically collect the family inheritance, the château, and the title of count.

The main thing that separates Donaree from other men is the fact that he was born rich and is remarkably well educated. Donaree is not at all talkative, and most of the time he keeps to himself—yet, not overly so; for, he does have a lady friend—a very beautiful lady friend: Madame Charlotte de La Rose. She is a woman of such extreme beauty that even Louis XIV has taken notice of her. But Donaree, lucky as he is, is the one man who has stolen her heart; and many, many men envy him for it. The one thing she loves most about Donaree is the fact that he is not a cruel man in any form or fashion, and that he always keeps his anger in check . . . most of the time, that is.

The man, unbelievably, is not at all lazy, and maintains no servant to tend to him. He merely considered that a servant would only be in his way, so he gave the idea no further thought. He also has a hobby which he pursues in his spare time: he collects old weaponry of every sort and displays them all over the whole of his apartment.

Donaree has very high morals in life, which show both in his person and his living quarters—he loves nothing but the very best. Thus, Monsieur Paul, Viscount de La Donaree, is a generous gentleman who enjoys the riches and opportunities of an adventurous and happy life.

Chapter 3: A Mysterious Note

"These festivities, with all of these guests, are getting a bit wild," says Donaree to a remarkably beautiful woman. "Would you care to step out onto the balcony with me?"

"What do you have in mind, sir?" she asks in return, with a subtle smile.

"Red wine is very good—but. there is no comparison to the taste of beautiful red lips!" Donaree returns the lady’s smile with one of his own.

"You have convinced me, sir," says she, holding out her arm to the Musketeer. He takes her arm in his, and they both proceed out onto the balcony.

The air is crisp and cool, the stars show brightly in the heavens, and the moon is so enticingly beautiful that the couple cannot help but indulge themselves in a kiss. But, first, they look into one another’s eyes, smiling boldly with eager anticipation.

"Madame de La Rose," Donaree says, addressing the lady before him, "how can any man resist you?"

"If my lover had heard you say that, sir, he would have a few words to exchange with you!"

"Oh? And, what would I say to myself?"

"Well, you would say," she continues, taking his arms and placing them around her waist, "you would say in your conceited way..." She laughs softly, while Donaree’s eyes widen at the statement. "'I, the greatest Musketeer, am the luckiest of all men, for I have Charlotte de La Rose as my lover!'"

"Why, your lover must indeed be conceited!"

"Because he thinks himself the greatest of all Musketeers?" she asks, her smile broadening.

"No, because he thinks he is the luckiest of all men for having you as his lover!"

"What!" she exclaims, her own eyes widening in mock outrage.

He lets out a hearty laugh. "Touché, my sweet! It seems you are correct about your lover: he is the happiest of all men; for, he has, indeed, the most beautiful of women to love him. To that statement, I most certainly agree."

"Well, that is better," she concludes.

They then proceed to kiss. Still in their embrace, their lips begin to slowly move toward each other. Closer and closer their heads come together, their lips parting, anticipating the moment when they will finally meet . . . then, bump!

Suddenly, the image of an older man appears—the very man who had bumped into Donaree, intentionally, and challenged him to a duel. The entire scenery around Donaree begins to shift. No longer is Madame de La Rose standing before him; no longer is he on a balcony; no longer is he even in the same location he occupied just two seconds earlier. Instead, he stands in the middle of a Paris street. The sun is still up, though preparing to set, and the thoroughfares are thoroughly crowded: filled with merchants, buyers, peasants, beggars, and soldiers—including Donaree and the older man.

"Why don’t you watch where you are going!" the older man shouts. "Do you want to get yourself thrashed for running into people like that?"

"Excuse me?" roars Donaree. "You, sir, bumped into me!"

"Are you calling me a liar?"

Finally, Donaree awakens from his dream. His eyes open, and he begins to look around his quarters. It is somewhat dark, save for a few candles flickering upon the wall and the fireplace aglow with brightly colored flames. His attention turns to his left, where he sees, draped over the chair beside him, his stockings, his hat, his sword enclosed in its shoulder-belt, his cape, and his gloves; sitting next to the chair, upon the center rug, are his boots. Sitting up somewhat, he now pulls his pocket-watch from his doublet and checks the hour.

"Half-past seven?" he mutters, knitting his brows slightly. "I have slept the entire day; how unusual . . . It must be because I obtained only a few hours of sleep last night and remained awake for so long."

With that, he rises from his chair. And, just as he is putting his watch away, a knock sounds at the front door, drawing his gaze toward the antechamber.

"Who can that be?" he wonders silently. "I am expecting no one tonight."

Another knock sounds, far more furious than the first.

Sitting upon a small table beside his chair is a half-empty glass of Burgundy wine, which he had poured for himself that morning. He picks it up and finishes the delicious drink in one gulp, then proceeds toward the door. But, before he reaches the entry, a third, even more anxious knock echoes through the room.

"Whoever this may be," thinks Donaree, "they seem extraordinarily impatient."

He opens the door.

Standing before him is a figure who, evidently, wishes not to be recognized, for their entire person is wrapped in a dark cloak that melts into the evening shadows. Donaree stares at the strange visitor for a brief second.

"Yes?" he asks, somewhat perplexed.

A gloved hand, as dark as the rest of the figure, extends a note toward the curious Musketeer. He takes it slowly.

"Who is this from?" he asks the stranger, his brows knitting. "Is it from Captain d’Artagnan?"

By pure accident, the hood of the cloak slips slightly from the stranger's face, revealing the features of a very pretty girl. Donaree, wide-eyed with surprise, instantly recognizes her as the maid of his lady love.

"Missy?" he says.

Startled to the point of panic, she turns and runs off toward the street.

"Missy!" he calls out.

But, she does not look back—not even once—and, continues her flight until the darkness of the night devours her.

He shuts the front door, walks directly to the fireplace for light, leans against the mantel, and examines the mysterious piece of paper with curiosity.

"It is Madame de La Rose’s letter, indeed; I recognize the seal. But, why would my love send her maid all the way here to deliver a message disguised in such a costume?"

He brings the letter close to his face, inhales the perfumed scent upon the paper, and smiles at the familiar aroma. Then, at last, he breaks the seal.

Upon reading the contents, utter confusion springs to his mind.

I need your help!

There is no signature, yet he recognizes that dear hand—shaky though the penmanship appears.

"What on earth could be wrong?" he whispers, his brow furrowing once again.

Slowly, he folds the letter and slips it into his pocket. A troubled feeling then starts to intensify within him. Wasting no time, Donaree quickly slides his bare feet into his boots. Slinging the shoulder-belt, equipped with his sword, over his head, the weapon then quickly rests at its customary place at his left side. Leaving the candles and hearth fire burning, he snatches his hat and gloves and heads out immediately.

He briskly traverses the streets of the famous City of Light. It is not until he is nearly three blocks from his apartment, however, that he notices the cool evening air penetrating the sleeves of his silk shirt, raising goosebumps upon his arms. He realizes then that he forgot to don his cloak.

"It is a chilly night," he remarks to himself, "but, I am not turning back for my cloak. Something is wrong, and I intend to find out what."

He quickens his pace, crosses several streets, makes a left turn, and finally comes face-to-face with a handsome two-story residence—the abode of his lady love.

This château has the very look of comfort. The steep, dark-brown shingled roof, and the gold-trimmed windows, give the impression that it had been built for admiration and for show by the wealthy, perhaps a century ago. This dwelling is made of cut stones, varying in hues of pink, grey, and blue, with small white rocks interspersing—merely adding to its richness. And, the look is made complete with perfectly trimmed hedges that sit on both sides of the entryway. Six large steps lead to the porch, and were built in a half-circle formation. One could take a short walk on each foothold, but tonight Donaree pays no attention to any of the great qualities of this château, and he does not try to be supple as he climbs these extraordinary stairs, for he is missing every other step as he bounds up to the great stone porch.

Reaching the entrance, he knocks upon the heavy door. Receiving no answer, he knocks a second time. Presently, he hears someone slowly draw the bolt; after a brief pause, the latch begins to turn. Very slowly, the door creeps open, stopping when it is a mere three inches from the frame.

Donaree looks on with pure curiosity.

A single pretty eye peers out at him through the narrow gap. Two eyes, or rather three, lock in a brief gaze, until the eye behind the door recognizes the large soldier. Upon this, the girl swings the door wide open, throws herself into the Musketeer’s arms, and lets out a cry of overwhelming relief.

"Ah! Monsieur de La Donaree—how happy I am to see you!"

"You were not so happy to see me a few moments ago," says he, observing that it is indeed Missy, the maid—an eighteen-year-old girl with flowing blonde hair and the prettiest blue eyes imaginable.

"But, you do not understand," she says, "I had to hurry back to be by the side of my mistress."

"Missy, let me speak with Madame de La Rose."

"I wish I could, but she is not here—she has left without me!"

"Well, where did she go?"

"Oh, if I knew that, I would not be so distraught!"

He gently eases her back from his chest. "Missy," he says, holding the girl by the shoulders and looking directly into her eyes, "I have a feeling you are not telling me everything."

Tears begin to spill over. "Oh, monsieur, you must help my mistress!"

"How can I help her if you do not tell me what has occurred? Now, calm yourself, Missy, and start from the beginning."

He hands her his handkerchief—a very fine one—and, she wipes the glistening tears from her sad face.

"Well, monsieur," she begins, composing herself, though still choked with grief, "it was not thirty minutes ago when someone knocked at the front door. Naturally, I answered it and found two men standing before me whom I could scarcely distinguish in the dark. From the voices I heard, though, I did not recognize either of them."

She pauses for a moment, as though carefully weighing her next words.

"Yes," Donaree says, "go on."

"It happened so quickly, monsieur, that it is hard to say precisely what occurred or for what reason. They asked for my mistress; of course, I obeyed and, leaving them at the doorway, fetched her. And, sir, I am sorry to say, out of respect for my mistress, I did not remain beside her while she spoke with them."

"Leaving her alone with two men whom you did not know?" asks Donaree, growing uneasy.

"Monsieur Donaree, I said that I stepped away, but I failed to mention that Madame de La Rose signaled for me to leave. Perhaps they required a private conversation. Only a moment later, my mistress walked into the adjoining room where I was cleaning—and, most unfortunately, she was within sight of those two men, who were still standing at the entrance. Although they watched her, all they could see was her back, as she was very careful to keep herself turned away from them. As she reached for her cloak with one hand, she used her other, trembling with nerves, to quickly write down those four words which I am sure you have read. The look she gave me then was, beyond any doubt, a plea for me to seal the note and deliver it safely to you. She then looked me straight in the eye—and, monsieur, her eyes were stricken with tears!"

At the words stricken with tears, a jolt travels through Donaree’s frame.

Continuing, the maid says, "Then madame whispered: 'Missy, I must trust you to deliver this message to Monsieur Donaree. Adieu.'"

"Adieu?" Donaree exclaims.

"That is what I said: 'Why goodbye, madame?'"

"'I have no time to talk, Missy,' she insisted. 'Now do as I bid, please!' Sealing the letter as fast as lightning while madame blocked their view, I slipped to the side until my presence could no longer be seen by those men. I darted out the back door, delivered the letter to you, and quickly returned. But, it was too late—madame was nowhere to be found!"

Donaree’s head drops to his chest. "No!" he groans, letting out a heavy sigh.

A moment of silence follows, with Donaree’s head still bowed low and Missy feeling a fresh wave of sorrow coming on. The unhappy girl begins to weep once more, covering her face with her hands to hide the flowing tears. Upon hearing her, Donaree regains his composure, raises his head, and feels a deep pity for the young maid.

"Please, Missy, do not cry," he says, gently drawing her hands away from her face. "I will find Madame de La Rose and bring her back to us—I swear it! I will follow her to the ends of the earth and back again. Do you believe me, Missy?"

"Oh, yes, Monsieur Donaree, I believe you would! But, where could you possibly look for her?"

"That is a fine question, Missy, and I shall have to think of something. It will help, however, if you can provide a description of her abductors—if, indeed, they are abductors. Are you positive she went unwillingly?"

"Monsieur, there can be no doubt whatever," the girl cries. "Their very actions constituted a positive act of abduction!"

"It seems clear enough . . . Now, think, Missy, and describe the features of those men."

"Oh, monsieur, I do not know if I can! The night shrouded them at the doorway; and, being so frightened, I became blinded by fear."

"Yet, you recognized me when I knocked at your door."

"Because you are so easy to recognize, sir! Your attire, your stature, and that plume hanging from your hat—there is not another like it in the whole of Paris!"

"Really?" says he, glancing to his side to admire the magnificent plume.

"Yes, really."

"Hum," says Donaree. He then turns back to Missy, shaking his head slightly to clear the brief distraction. "Well," he continues, returning to the matter at hand, "is there anything else you can add that might prove helpful?"

"Now that I think of it, I did see, beyond the two men at the doorway, the outline of a carriage hitched to four white horses. I could see it clearly because it stood near a street lamp."

"Is there anything else?"

"No, that is all, I am sorry to say."

"Very well; thank you, Missy. Go back inside now, bolt your door, and answer to no one, save myself or Madame de La Rose. Do you understand?"

"You are not going to leave me here alone, are you?" she asks, horrified, raising her voice.

"I must search for Madame de La Rose, Missy. You want her back, do you not?"

"Of course I do, but I am so frightened!"

"I know. But I must find her."

"Yes, yes, you are right," she says, yielding to the logic. "Please be careful, monsieur!"

"I shall."

He then turns on his heel and walks away.

Missy, willingly following Donaree’s counsel, quickly bolts the front door. She then runs to her room, locks her own door, and sits in the corner of her bed with the covers pulled completely over her—a look of sheer terror upon her face.