The comic-book-style cover might have been the greatest thing about this book. Apparently this is the best translation, Pevear’s, but my god (mondieu!) what a ghastly affair. Somewhere midships I was about to jump overboard as Dumas got carried away having D’Artagnan fall in love with Milady and completely forget about his apparent true love, Ms. Bonacieux, who was locked up in a convent for her protection by the queen. Somehow I have missed all the Disneyfied retellings of this story, so it was with fresh ears that the tale of D’Artagnan and his three musketeer friends (Athos = great lord presumed dead, Porthos = boisterous and pretending to be in love with a rich married woman, Aramis = always yearning for the church). Swordfights, gentlemen of honor, handkerchiefs dropped. Tiny chapters that belie the serialized nature of the story parceled out in spoonfuls to the Parisian illiterate. A bland basic story muddled with miles of dialogue that go nowhere. Spoiled by the Count of Monte Christo, I am.