don’t know where he is.”
“How!” cried D’Artagnan; “you don’t know where Aramis is?”
“Formerly,” replied Bazin, “Aramis was his name of perdition. By Aramis
is meant Simara, which is the name of a demon. Happily for him he has
ceased to bear that name.”
“And therefore,” said D’Artagnan, resolved to be patient to the end,
“it is not Aramis I seek, but the Abbé d’Herblay. Come, my dear Bazin,
tell me where he is.”
“Didn’t you hear me tell you, Monsieur d’Artagnan, that I don’t know
where he is?”
“Yes, certainly; but to that I answer that it is impossible.”
“It is, nevertheless, the truth, monsieur—the pure truth, the truth of
the good God.”
D’Artagnan saw clearly that he would get nothing out of this man, who
was evidently telling a falsehood in his pretended ignorance of the
abode of Aramis, but whose lies were bold and decided.
“Well, Bazin,” said D’Artagnan, “since you do not know where your
master lives, let us speak of it no more; let us part good friends.
Accept this half-pistole to drink to my health.”
“I do not drink”—Bazin pushed away with dignity the officer’s
hand—“’tis good only for the laity.”
“Incorruptible!” murmured D’Artagnan; “I _am_ unlucky;” and whilst he
was lost in thought Bazin retreated toward the sacristy, and even there
he could not think himself safe until he had shut and locked the door
behind him.
D’Artagnan was still in deep thought when some one touched him on the
shoulder. He turned and was about to utter an exclamation of surprise
when the other made to him a sign of silence.
“You here, Rochefort?” he said, in a low voice.
“Hush!” returned Rochefort. “Did you know that I am at liberty?”
“I knew it from the fountain-head—from Planchet. And what brought you
here?”
“I came to thank God for my happy deliverance,” said Rochefort.
“And nothing more? I suppose that is not all.”
“To take my orders from the coadjutor and to see if we cannot wake up
Mazarin a little.”
“A bad plan; you’ll be shut up again in the Bastile.”
“Oh, as to that, I shall take care, I assure you. The air, the fresh,
free air is so good; besides,” and Rochefort drew a deep breath as he
spoke, “I am going into the country to make a tour.”
“Stop,” cried D’Artagnan; “I, too, am going.”
“And if I may without impertinence ask—where are you going?”
“To seek my friends.”
“What friends?”
“Those that you asked about yesterday.”
“Athos, Porthos and Aramis—you are looking for them?”
“Yes.”
“On honor?”
“What, then, is there surprising in that?”
“Nothing. Queer, though. And in whose behalf are you looking for them?”
“You are in no doubt on that score.”
“That is true.”
“Unfortunately, I have no idea where they are.”
“And you have no way to get news of them? Wait a week and I myself will
give you some.”
“A week is too long. I must find them within three days.”
“Three days are a short time and France is large.”
“No matter; you know the word _must;_ with that word great things are
done.”
“And when do you set out?”
“I am now on my road.”
“Good luck to you.”
“And to you—a good journey.”
“Perhaps we shall meet on our road.”
“That is not probable.”
“Who knows? Chance is so capricious. Adieu, till we meet again!
Apropos, should Mazarin speak to you about me, tell him that I should
have requested you to acquaint him that in a short time he will see
whether I am, as he says, too old for action.”
And Rochefort went away with one of those diabolical smiles which used
formerly to make D’Artagnan shudder, but D’Artagnan could now see it
without alarm, and smiling in his turn, with an expression of
melancholy which the recollections called up by that smile could,
perhaps, alone give to his countenance, he said:
“Go, demon, do what thou wilt! It matters little now to me. There’s no
second Constance in the world.”
On his return to the cathedral, D’Artagnan saw Bazin, who was
conversing with the sacristan. Bazin was making, with his spare little
short arms, ridiculous gestures. D’Artagnan perceived that he was
enforcing prudence with respect to himself.
D’Artagnan slipped out of the cathedral and placed himself in ambuscade
at the corner of the Rue des Canettes; it was impossible that Bazin
should go out of the cathedral without his seeing him.
In five minutes Bazin made his appearance, looking in every direction
to see if he were observed, but he saw no one. Calmed by appearances he
ventured to walk on through the Rue Notre Dame. Then D’Artagnan rushed
out of his hiding place and arrived in time to see Bazin turn down the
Rue de la Juiverie and enter, in the Rue de la Calandre, a respectable
looking house; and this D’Artagnan felt no doubt was the habitation of
the worthy beadle. Afraid of making any inquiries at this house,
D’Artagnan entered a small tavern at the corner of the street and asked
for a cup of hypocras. This beverage required a good half-hour to
prepare. And D’Artagnan had time, therefore, to watch Bazin
unsuspected.
He perceived in the tavern a pert boy between twelve and fifteen years
of age whom he fancied he had seen not twenty minutes before under the
guise of a chorister. He questioned him, and as the boy had no interest
in deceiving, D’Artagnan learned that he exercised, from six o’clock in
the morning until nine, the office of chorister, and from nine o’clock
till midnight that of a waiter in the tavern.
Whilst he was talking to this lad a horse was brought to the door of
Bazin’s house. It was saddled and bridled. Almost immediately Bazin
came downstairs.
“Look!” said the boy, “there’s our beadle, who is going a journey.”
“And where is he going?” asked D’Artagnan.
“Forsooth, I don’t know.”
“Half a pistole if you can find out,” said D’Artagnan.
“For me?” cried the boy, his eyes sparkling with joy, “if I can find
out where Bazin is going? That is not difficult. You are not joking,
are you?”
“No, on the honor of an officer; there is the half-pistole;” and he
showed him the seductive coin, but did not give it him.
“I shall ask him.”
“Just the very way not to know. Wait till he is set out and then,
marry, come up, ask, and find out. The half-pistole is ready,” and he
put it back again into his pocket.
“I understand,” said the child, with that jeering smile which marks
especially the “gamin de Paris.” “Well, we must wait.”
They had not long to wait. Five minutes afterward Bazin set off on a
full trot, urging on his horse by the blows of a parapluie, which he
was in the habit of using instead of a riding whip.
Scarcely had he turned the corner of the Rue de la Juiverie when the
boy rushed after him like a bloodhound on full scent.
Before ten minutes had elapsed the child returned.
“Well!” said D’Artagnan.
“Well!” answered the boy, “the thing is done.”
“Where is he gone?”
“The half-pistole is for me?”
“Doubtless, answer me.”
“I want to see it. Give it me, that I may see it is not false.”
“There it is.”
The child put the piece of money into his pocket.
“And now, where is he gone?” inquired D’Artagnan.
“He is gone to Noisy.”
“How dost thou know?”
“Ah, faith! there was no great cunning necessary. I knew the horse he
rode; it belonged to the butcher, who lets it out now and then to M.
Bazin. Now I thought that the butcher would not let his horse out like
that without knowing where it was going. And he answered ‘that Monsieur
Bazin went to Noisy.’ ’Tis his custom. He goes two or three times a
week.”
“Dost thou know Noisy well?”
“I think so, truly; my nurse lives there.”
“Is there a convent at Noisy?”
“Isn’t there a great and grand one—the convent of Jesuits?”
“What is thy name?”
“Friquet.”
D’Artagnan wrote the child’s name in his tablets.
“Please, sir,” said the boy, “do you think I can gain any more
half-pistoles in any way?”
“Perhaps,” replied D’Artagnan.
And having got out all he wanted, he paid for the hypocras, which he
did not drink, and went quickly back to the Rue Tiquetonne.
Chapter VIII.
D’Artagnan, Going to a Distance to discover Aramis.
On entering the hotel D’Artagnan saw a man sitting in a corner by the
fire. It was Planchet, but so completely transformed, thanks to the old
clothes that the departing husband had left behind, that D’Artagnan
himself could hardly recognize him. Madeleine introduced him in
presence of all the servants. Planchet addressed the officer with a
fine Flemish phrase; the officer replied in words that belonged to no
language at all, and the bargain was concluded; Madeleine’s brother
entered D’Artagnan’s service.
The plan adopted by D’Artagnan was soon perfected. He resolved not to
reach Noisy in the day, for fear of being recognized; he had therefore
plenty of time before him, for Noisy is only three or four leagues from
Paris, on the road to Meaux.
He began his day by breakfasting substantially—a bad beginning when one
wants to employ the head, but an excellent precaution when one wants to
work the body; and about two o’clock he had his two horses saddled, and
followed by Planchet he quitted Paris by the Barrière de la Villete. A
most active search was still prosecuted in the house near the Hotel de
la Chevrette for the discovery of Planchet.
At about a league and a half from the city, D’Artagnan, finding that in
his impatience he had set out too soon, stopped to give the horses
breathing time. The inn was full of disreputable looking people, who
seemed as if they were on the point of commencing some nightly
expedition. A man, wrapped in a cloak, appeared at the door, but seeing
a stranger he beckoned to his companions, and two men who were drinking
in the inn went out to speak to him.
D’Artagnan, on his side, went up to the landlady, praised her
wine—which was a horrible production from the country of Montreuil—and
heard from her that there were only two houses of importance in the
village; one of these belonged to the Archbishop of Paris, and was at
that time the abode of his niece the Duchess of Longueville; the other
was a convent of Jesuits and was the property—a by no means unusual
circumstance—of these worthy fathers.
At four o’clock D’Artagnan recommenced his journey. He proceeded slowly
and in deep reverie. Planchet also was lost in thought, but the subject
of their reflections was not the same.
One word which their landlady had pronounced had given a particular
turn to D’Artagnan’s deliberations; this was the name of Madame de
Longueville.
That name was indeed one to inspire imagination and produce thought.
Madame de Longueville was one of the highest ladies in the realm; she
was also one of the greatest beauties at court. She had formerly been
suspected of an intimacy of too tender a nature with Coligny, who, for
her sake, had been killed in a duel, in the Place Royale, by the Duc de
Guise. She was now connected by bonds of a political nature with the
Prince de Marsillac, the eldest son of the old Duc de Rochefoucauld,
whom she was trying to inspire with an enmity toward the Duc de Condé,
her brother-in-law, whom she now hated mortally.
D’Artagnan thought of all these matters. He remembered how at the
Louvre he had often seen, as she passed by him in the full radiance of
her dazzling charms, the beautiful Madame de Longueville. He thought of
Aramis, who, without possessing any greater advantages than himself,
had formerly been the lover of Madame de Chevreuse, who had been to a
former court what Madame de Longueville was in that day; and he
wondered how it was that there should be in the world people who
succeed in every wish, some in ambition, others in love, whilst others,
either from chance, or from ill-luck, or from some natural defect or
impediment, remain half-way upon the road toward fulfilment of their
hopes and expectations.
He was confessing to himself that he belonged to the latter unhappy
class, when Planchet approached and said:
“I will lay a wager, your honor, that you and I are thinking of the
same thing.”
“I doubt it, Planchet,” replied D’Artagnan, “but what are you thinking
of?”
“I am thinking, sir, of those desperate looking men who were drinking
in the inn where we rested.”
“Always cautious, Planchet.”
“’Tis instinct, your honor.”
“Well, what does your instinct tell you now?”
“Sir, my instinct told me that those people were assembled there for
some bad purpose; and I was reflecting on what my instinct had told me,
in the darkest corner of the stable, when a man wrapped in a cloak and
followed by two other men, came in.”
“Ah ah!” said D’Artagnan, Planchet’s recital agreeing with his own
observations. “Well?”
“One of these two men said, ‘He must certainly be at Noisy, or be
coming there this evening, for I have seen his servant.’
“‘Art thou sure?’ said the man in the cloak.
“‘Yes, my prince.’”
“My prince!” interrupted D’Artagnan.
“Yes, ‘my prince;’ but listen. ‘If he is here’—this is what the other
man said—‘let’s see decidedly what to do with him.’
“‘What to do with him?’ answered the prince.
“‘Yes, he’s not a man to allow himself to be taken anyhow; he’ll defend
himself.’
“‘Well, we must try to take him alive. Have you cords to bind him with
and a gag to stop his mouth?’
“‘We have.’
“‘Remember that he will most likely be disguised as a horseman.’
“‘Yes, yes, my lord; don’t be uneasy.’
“‘Besides, I shall be there.’
“‘You will assure us that justice——’
“‘Yes, yes! I answer for all that,’ the prince said.
“‘Well, then, we’ll do our best.’ Having said that, they went out of
the stable.”
“Well, what matters all that to us?” said D’Artagnan. “This is one of
those attempts that happen every day.”
“Are you sure that we are not its objects?”
“We? Why?”
“Just remember what they said. ‘I have seen his servant,’ said one, and
that applies very well to me.”
“Well?”
“‘He must certainly be at Noisy, or be coming there this evening,’ said
the other; and that applies very well to you.”
“What else?”
“Then the prince said: ‘Take notice that in all probability he will be
disguised as a cavalier;’ which seems to me to leave no room for doubt,
since you are dressed as a cavalier and not as an officer of
musketeers. Now then, what do you say to that?”
“Alas! my dear Planchet,” said D’Artagnan, sighing, “we are
unfortunately no longer in those times in which princes would care to
assassinate me. Those were good old days; never fear—these people owe
us no grudge.”
“Is your honor _sure?_”
“I can answer for it they do not.”
“Well, we won’t speak of it any more, then;” and Planchet took his
place in D’Artagnan’s suite with that sublime confidence he had always
had in his master, which even fifteen years of separation had not
destroyed.
They had traveled onward about half a mile when Planchet came close up
to D’Artagnan.
“Stop, sir, look yonder,” he whispered; “don’t you see in the darkness
something pass by, like shadows? I fancy I hear horses’ feet.”
“Impossible!” returned D’Artagnan. “The ground is soaking wet; yet I
fancy, as thou sayest, that I see something.”
At this moment the neighing of a horse struck his ear, coming through
darkness and space.
“There are men somewhere about, but that’s of no consequence to us,”
said D’Artagnan; “let us ride onward.”
At about half-past eight o’clock they reached the first houses in
Noisy; every one was in bed and not a light was to be seen in the
village. The obscurity was broken only now and then by the still darker
lines of the roofs of houses. Here and there a dog barked behind a door
or an affrighted cat fled precipitately from the midst of the pavement
to take refuge behind a pile of faggots, from which retreat her eyes
would shine like peridores. These were the only living creatures that
seemed to inhabit the village.
Toward the middle of the town, commanding the principal open space,
rose a dark mass, separated from the rest of the world by two lanes and
overshadowed in the front by enormous lime-trees. D’Artagnan looked
attentively at the building.
“This,” he said to Planchet, “must be the archbishop’s château, the
abode of the fair Madame de Longueville; but the convent, where is
that?”
“The convent, your honor, is at the other end of the village; I know it
well.”
“Well, then, Planchet, gallop up to it whilst I tighten my horse’s
girth, and come back and tell me if there is a light in any of the
Jesuits’ windows.”
In about five minutes Planchet returned.
“Sir,” he said, “there is one window of the convent lighted up.”
“Hem! If I were a ‘Frondeur,’” said D’Artagnan, “I should knock here
and should be sure of a good supper. If I were a monk I should knock
yonder and should have a good supper there, too; whereas, ’tis very
possible that between the castle and the convent we shall sleep on hard
beds, dying with hunger and thirst.”
“Yes,” added Planchet, “like the famous ass of Buridan. Shall I knock?”
“Hush!” replied D’Artagnan; “the light no longer burns in yonder
window.”
“Do you hear nothing?” whispered Planchet.
“What is that noise?”
There came a sound like a whirlwind, at the same time two troops of
horsemen, each composed of ten men, sallied forth from each of the
lanes which encompassed the house and surrounded D’Artagnan and
Planchet.
“Heyday!” cried D’Artagnan, drawing his sword and taking refuge behind
his horse; “are you not mistaken? is it really for us that you mean
your attack?”
“Here he is! we have him!” cried the horsemen, rushing on D’Artagnan
with naked swords.
“Don’t let him escape!” said a loud voice.
“No, my lord; be assured we shall not.”
D’Artagnan thought it was now time for him to join in the conversation.
“Halloo, gentlemen!” he called out in his Gascon accent, “what do you
want? what do you demand?”
“That thou shalt soon know,” shouted a chorus of horsemen.
“Stop, stop!” cried he whom they had addressed as “my lord;” “’tis not
his voice.”
“Ah! just so, gentlemen! pray, do people get into a passion at random
at Noisy? Take care, for I warn you that the first man that comes
within the length of my sword—and my sword is long—I rip him up.”
The chieftain of the party drew near.
“What are you doing here?” he asked in a lofty tone, as that of one
accustomed to command.
“And you—what are _you_ doing here?” replied D’Artagnan.
“Be civil, or I shall beat you; for although one may not choose to
proclaim oneself, one insists on respect suitable to one’s rank.”
“You don’t choose to discover yourself, because you are the leader of
an ambuscade,” returned D’Artagnan; “but with regard to myself, who am
traveling quietly with my own servant, I have not the same reasons as
you have to conceal my name.”
“Enough! enough! what is your name?”
“I shall tell you my name in order that you may know where to find me,
my lord, or my prince, as it may suit you best to be called,” said our
Gascon, who did not choose to seem to yield to a threat. “Do you know
Monsieur d’Artagnan?”
“Lieutenant in the king’s musketeers?” said the voice; “you are
Monsieur d’Artagnan?”
“I am.”
“Then you came here to defend him?”
“Him? whom?”
“The man we are seeking.”
“It seems,” said D’Artagnan, “that whilst I thought I was coming to
Noisy I have entered, without suspecting it, into the kingdom of
mysteries.”
“Come,” replied the same lofty tone, “answer! Are you waiting for him
underneath these windows? Did you come to Noisy to defend him?”
“I am waiting for no one,” replied D’Artagnan, who was beginning to be
angry. “I propose to defend no one but myself, and I shall defend
myself vigorously, I give you warning.”
“Very well,” said the voice; “go away from here and leave the place to
us.”
“Go away from here!” said D’Artagnan, whose purposes were in conflict
with that order, “that is not so easy, since I am on the point of
falling, and my horse, too, through fatigue; unless, indeed, you are
disposed to offer me a supper and a bed in the neighborhood.”
“Rascal!”
“Eh! monsieur!” said D’Artagnan, “I beg you will have a care what you
say; for if you utter another word like that, be you marquis, duke,
prince or king, I will thrust it down your throat! do you hear?”
“Well, well,” rejoined the leader, “there’s no doubt ’tis a Gascon who
is speaking, and therefore not the man we are looking for. Our blow has
failed for to-night; let us withdraw. We shall meet again, Master
d’Artagnan,” continued the leader, raising his voice.
“Yes, but never with the same advantages,” said D’Artagnan, in a tone
of raillery; “for when you meet me again you will perhaps be alone and
there will be daylight.”
“Very good, very good,” said the voice. “_En route_, gentlemen.”
And the troop, grumbling angrily, disappeared in the darkness and took
the road to Paris. D’Artagnan and Planchet remained for some moments
still on the defensive; then, as the noise of the horsemen became more
and more distant, they sheathed their swords.
“Thou seest, simpleton,” said D’Artagnan to his servant, “that they
wished no harm to us.”
“But to whom, then?”
“I’faith! I neither know nor care. What I do care for now, is to make
my way into the Jesuits’ convent; so to horse and let us knock at their
door. Happen what will, the devil take them, they can’t eat us.”
And he mounted his horse. Planchet had just done the same when an
unexpected weight fell upon the back of the horse, which sank down.
“Hey! your honor!” cried Planchet, “I’ve a man behind me.”
D’Artagnan turned around and plainly saw two human forms on Planchet’s
horse.
“’Tis then the devil that pursues!” he cried; drawing his sword and
preparing to attack the new foe.
“No, no, dear D’Artagnan,” said the figure, “’tis not the devil, ’tis
Aramis; gallop fast, Planchet, and when you come to the end of the
village turn swiftly to the left.”
And Planchet, with Aramis behind him, set off at full gallop, followed
by D’Artagnan, who began to think he was in the merry maze of some
fantastic dream.
Chapter IX.
The Abbé D’Herblay.
At the extremity of the village Planchet turned to the left in
obedience to the orders of Aramis, and stopped underneath the window
which had light in it. Aramis alighted and clapped his hands three
times. Immediately the window was opened and a ladder of rope was let
down from it.
“My friend,” said Aramis, “if you like to ascend I shall be delighted
to receive you.”
“Ah,” said D’Artagnan, “is that the way you return to your apartment?”
“After nine at night, _pardieu!_” said Aramis, “the rule of the convent
is very severe.”
“Pardon me, my dear friend,” said D’Artagnan, “I think you said
‘_pardieu!_’”
“Do you think so?” said Aramis, smiling; “it is possible. You have no
idea, my dear fellow, how one acquires bad habits in these cursed
convents, or what evil ways all these men of the church have, with whom
I am obliged to live. But will you not go up?”
“Pass on before me, I beg of you.”
“As the late cardinal used to say to the late king, ‘only to show you
the way, sire.’” And Aramis ascended the ladder quickly and reached the
window in an instant.
D’Artagnan followed, but less nimbly, showing plainly that this mode of
ascent was not one to which he was accustomed.
“I beg your pardon,” said Aramis, noticing his awkwardness; “if I had
known that I was to have the honor of your visit I should have procured
the gardener’s ladder; but for me alone this is good enough.”
“Sir,” said Planchet when he saw D’Artagnan on the summit of the
ladder, “this way is easy for Monsieur Aramis and even for you; in case
of necessity I might also climb up, but my two horses cannot mount the
ladder.”
“Take them to yonder shed, my friend,” said Aramis, pointing to a low
building on the plain; “there you will find hay and straw for them;
then come back here and clap your hands three times, and we will give
you wine and food. Marry, forsooth, people don’t die of hunger here.”
And Aramis, drawing in the ladder, closed the window. D’Artagnan then
looked around attentively.
Never was there an apartment at the same time more warlike and more
elegant. At each corner were arranged trophies, presenting to view
swords of all sorts, and on the walls hung four great pictures
representing in their ordinary military costume the Cardinal de
Lorraine, the Cardinal de Richelieu, the Cardinal de la Valette, and
the Archbishop of Bordeaux. Exteriorly, nothing in the room showed that
it was the habitation of an abbé. The hangings were of damask, the
carpets from Alençon, and the bed, especially, had more the look of a
fine lady’s couch, with its trimmings of fine lace and its embroidered
counterpane, than that of a man who had made a vow that he would
endeavor to gain Heaven by fasting and mortification.
“You are examining my den,” said Aramis. “Ah, my dear fellow, excuse
me; I am lodged like a Chartreux. But what are you looking for?”
“I am looking for the person who let down the ladder. I see no one and
yet the ladder didn’t come down of itself.”
“No, it is Bazin.”
“Ah! ah!” said D’Artagnan.
“But,” continued Aramis, “Bazin is a well trained servant, and seeing
that I was not alone he discreetly retired. Sit down, my dear friend,
and let us talk.” And Aramis pushed forward a large easy-chair, in
which D’Artagnan stretched himself out.
“In the first place, you will sup with me, will you not?” asked Aramis.
“Yes, if you really wish it,” said D’Artagnan, “and even with great
pleasure, I confess; the journey has given me a devil of an appetite.”
“Ah, my poor friend!” said Aramis, “you will find meagre fare; you were
not expected.”
“Am I then threatened with the omelet of Crèvecœur?”
“Oh, let us hope,” said Aramis, “that with the help of God and of Bazin
we shall find something better than that in the larder of the worthy
Jesuit fathers. Bazin, my friend, come here.”
The door opened and Bazin entered; on perceiving the musketeer he
uttered an exclamation that was almost a cry of despair.
“My dear Bazin,” said D’Artagnan, “I am delighted to see with what
wonderful composure you can tell a lie even in church!”
“Sir,” replied Bazin, “I have been taught by the good Jesuit fathers
that it is permitted to tell a falsehood when it is told in a good
cause.”
“So far well,” said Aramis; “we are dying of hunger. Serve us up the
best supper you can, and especially give us some good wine.”
Bazin bowed low, sighed, and left the room.
“Now we are alone, dear Aramis,” said D’Artagnan, “tell me how the
devil you managed to alight upon the back of Planchet’s horse.”
“I’faith!” answered Aramis, “as you see, from Heaven.”
“From Heaven,” replied D’Artagnan, shaking his head; “you have no more
the appearance of coming from thence than you have of going there.”
“My friend,” said Aramis, with a look of imbecility on his face which
D’Artagnan had never observed whilst he was in the musketeers, “if I
did not come from Heaven, at least I was leaving Paradise, which is
almost the same.”
“Here, then, is a puzzle for the learned,” observed D’Artagnan, “until
now they have never been able to agree as to the situation of Paradise;
some place it on Mount Ararat, others between the rivers Tigris and
Euphrates; it seems that they have been looking very far away for it,
while it was actually very near. Paradise is at Noisy le Sec, upon the
site of the archbishop’s château. People do not go out from it by the
door, but by the window; one doesn’t descend here by the marble steps
of a peristyle, but by the branches of a lime-tree; and the angel with
a flaming sword who guards this elysium seems to have changed his
celestial name of Gabriel into that of the more terrestrial one of the
Prince de Marsillac.”
Aramis burst into a fit of laughter.
“You were always a merry companion, my dear D’Artagnan,” he said, “and
your witty Gascon fancy has not deserted you. Yes, there is something
in what you say; nevertheless, do not believe that it is Madame de
Longueville with whom I am in love.”
“A plague on’t! I shall not do so. After having been so long in love
with Madame de Chevreuse, you would hardly lay your heart at the feet
of her mortal enemy!”
“Yes,” replied Aramis, with an absent air; “yes, that poor duchess! I
once loved her much, and to do her justice, she was very useful to us.
Eventually she was obliged to leave France. He was a relentless enemy,
that damned cardinal,” continued Aramis, glancing at the portrait of
the old minister. “He had even given orders to arrest her and would
have cut off her head had she not escaped with her waiting-maid—poor
Kitty! I have heard that she met with a strange adventure in I don’t
know what village, with I don’t know what curé, of whom she asked
hospitality and who, having but one chamber, and taking her for a
cavalier, offered to share it with her. For she had a wonderful way of
dressing as a man, that dear Marie; I know only one other woman who can
do it as well. So they made this song about her: ‘_Laboissiere, dis
moi_.’ You know it, don’t you?”
“No, sing it, please.”
Aramis immediately complied, and sang the song in a very lively manner.
“Bravo!” cried D’Artagnan, “you sing charmingly, dear Aramis. I do not
perceive that singing masses has spoiled your voice.”
“My dear D’Artagnan,” replied Aramis, “you understand, when I was a
musketeer I mounted guard as seldom as I could; now when I am an abbé I
say as few masses as I can. But to return to our duchess.”
“Which—the Duchess de Chevreuse or the Duchess de Longueville?”
“Have I not already told you that there is nothing between me and the
Duchess de Longueville? Little flirtations, perhaps, and that’s all.
No, I spoke of the Duchess de Chevreuse; did you see her after her
return from Brussels, after the king’s death?”
“Yes, she is still beautiful.”
“Yes,” said Aramis, “I saw her also at that time. I gave her good
advice, by which she did not profit. I ventured to tell her that
Mazarin was the lover of Anne of Austria. She wouldn’t believe me,
saying that she knew Anne of Austria, who was too proud to love such a
worthless coxcomb. After that she plunged into the cabal headed by the
Duke of Beaufort; and the ‘coxcomb’ arrested De Beaufort and banished
Madame de Chevreuse.”
“You know,” resumed D’Artagnan, “that she has had leave to return to
France?”
“Yes she is come back and is going to commit some fresh folly or
another.”
“Oh, but this time perhaps she will follow your advice.”
“Oh, this time,” returned Aramis, “I haven’t seen her; she is much
changed.”
“In that respect unlike you, my dear Aramis, for you are still the
same; you have still your beautiful dark hair, still your elegant
figure, still your feminine hands, which are admirably suited to a
prelate.”
“Yes,” replied Aramis, “I am extremely careful of my appearance. Do you
know that I am growing old? I am nearly thirty-seven.”
“Mind, Aramis”—D’Artagnan smiled as he spoke—“since we are together
again, let us agree on one point: what age shall we be in future?”
“How?”
“Formerly I was your junior by two or three years, and if I am not
mistaken I am turned forty years old.”
“Indeed! Then ’tis I who am mistaken, for you have always been a good
chronologist. By your reckoning I must be forty-three at least. The
devil I am! Don’t let it out at the Hotel Rambouillet; it would ruin
me,” replied the abbé.
“Don’t be afraid,” said D’Artagnan. “I never go there.”
“Why, what in the world,” cried Aramis, “is that animal Bazin doing?
Bazin! Hurry up there, you rascal; we are mad with hunger and thirst!”
Bazin entered at that moment carrying a bottle in each hand.
“At last,” said Aramis, “we are ready, are we?”
“Yes, monsieur, quite ready,” said Bazin; “but it took me some time to
bring up all the——”
“Because you always think you have on your shoulders your beadle’s
robe, and spend all your time reading your breviary. But I give you
warning that if in polishing your chapel utensils you forget how to
brighten up my sword, I will make a great fire of your blessed images
and will see that you are roasted on it.”
Bazin, scandalized, made a sign of the cross with the bottle in his
hand. D’Artagnan, more surprised than ever at the tone and manners of
the Abbé d’Herblay, which contrasted so strongly with those of the
Musketeer Aramis, remained staring with wide-open eyes at the face of
his friend.
Bazin quickly covered the table with a damask cloth and arranged upon
it so many things, gilded, perfumed, appetizing, that D’Artagnan was
quite overcome.
“But you expected some one then?” asked the officer.
“Oh,” said Aramis, “I always try to be prepared; and then I knew you
were seeking me.”
“From whom?”
“From Master Bazin, to be sure; he took you for the devil, my dear
fellow, and hastened to warn me of the danger that threatened my soul
if I should meet again a companion so wicked as an officer of
musketeers.”
“Oh, monsieur!” said Bazin, clasping his hands supplicatingly.
“Come, no hypocrisy! you know that I don’t like it. You will do much
better to open the window and let down some bread, a chicken and a
bottle of wine to your friend Planchet, who has been this last hour
killing himself clapping his hands.”
Planchet, in fact, had bedded and fed his horses, and then coming back
under the window had repeated two or three times the signal agreed
upon.
Bazin obeyed, fastened to the end of a cord the three articles
designated and let them down to Planchet, who then went satisfied to
his shed.
“Now to supper,” said Aramis.
The two friends sat down and Aramis began to cut up fowls, partridges
and hams with admirable skill.
“The deuce!” cried D’Artagnan; “do you live in this way always?”
“Yes, pretty well. The coadjutor has given me dispensations from
fasting on the _jours maigres_, on account of my health; then I have
engaged as my cook the cook who lived with Lafollone—you know the man I
mean?—the friend of the cardinal, and the famous epicure whose grace
after dinner used to be, ‘Good Lord, do me the favor to cause me to
digest what I have eaten.’”
“Nevertheless he died of indigestion, in spite of his grace,” said
D’Artagnan.
“What can you expect?” replied Aramis, in a tone of resignation. “Every
man that’s born must fulfil his destiny.”
“If it be not an indelicate question,” resumed D’Artagnan, “have you
grown rich?”
“Oh, Heaven! no. I make about twelve thousand francs a year, without
counting a little benefice of a thousand crowns the prince gave me.”
“And how do you make your twelve thousand francs? By your poems?”
“No, I have given up poetry, except now and then to write a drinking
song, some gay sonnet or some innocent epigram; I compose sermons, my
friend.”
“What! sermons? Do you preach them?”
“No; I sell them to those of my cloth who wish to become great
orators.”
“Ah, indeed! and you have not been tempted by the hopes of reputation
yourself?”
“I should, my dear D’Artagnan, have been so, but nature said ‘No.’ When
I am in the pulpit, if by chance a pretty woman looks at me, I look at
her again: if she smiles, I smile too. Then I speak at random; instead
of preaching about the torments of hell I talk of the joys of Paradise.
An event took place in the Church of St. Louis au Marais. A gentleman
laughed in my face. I stopped short to tell him that he was a fool; the
congregation went out to get stones to stone me with, but whilst they
were away I found means to conciliate the priests who were present, so
that my foe was pelted instead of me. ’Tis true that he came the next
morning to my house, thinking that he had to do with an abbé—like all
other abbés.”
“And what was the end of the affair?”
“We met in the Place Royale—Egad! you know about it.”
“Was I not your second?” cried D’Artagnan.
“You were; you know how I settled the matter.”
“Did he die?”
“I don’t know. But, at all events, I gave him absolution _in articulo
mortis_. ’Tis enough to kill the body, without killing the soul.”
Bazin made a despairing sign which meant that while perhaps he approved
the moral he altogether disapproved the tone in which it was uttered.
“Bazin, my friend,” said Aramis, “you don’t seem to be aware that I can
see you in that mirror, and you forget that once for all I have
forbidden all signs of approbation or disapprobation. You will do me
the favor to bring us some Spanish wine and then to withdraw. Besides,
my friend D’Artagnan has something to say to me privately, have you
not, D’Artagnan?”
D’Artagnan nodded his head and Bazin retired, after placing on the
table the Spanish wine.
The two friends, left alone, remained silent, face to face. Aramis
seemed to await a comfortable digestion; D’Artagnan, to be preparing
his exordium. Each of them, when the other was not looking, hazarded a
sly glance. It was Aramis who broke the silence.
“What are you thinking of, D’Artagnan?” he began.
“I was thinking, my dear old friend, that when you were a musketeer you
turned your thoughts incessantly to the church, and now that you are an
abbé you are perpetually longing to be once more a musketeer.”
“’Tis true; man, as you know,” said Aramis, “is a strange animal, made
up of contradictions. Since I became an abbé I dream of nothing but
battles.”
“That is apparent in your surroundings; you have rapiers here of every
form and to suit the most exacting taste. Do you still fence well?”
“I—I fence as well as you did in the old time—better still, perhaps; I
do nothing else all day.”
“And with whom?”
“With an excellent master-at-arms that we have here.”
“What! here?”
“Yes, here, in this convent, my dear fellow. There is everything in a
Jesuit convent.”
“Then you would have killed Monsieur de Marsillac if he had come alone
to attack you, instead of at the head of twenty men?”
“Undoubtedly,” said Aramis, “and even at the head of his twenty men, if
I could have drawn without being recognized.”
“God pardon me!” said D’Artagnan to himself, “I believe he has become
more Gascon than I am!” Then aloud: “Well, my dear Aramis, do you ask
me why I came to seek you?”
“No, I have not asked you that,” said Aramis, with his subtle manner;
“but I have expected you to tell me.”
“Well, I sought you for the single purpose of offering you a chance to
kill Monsieur de Marsillac whenever you please, prince though he is.”
“Hold on! wait!” said Aramis; “that is an idea!”
“Of which I invite you to take advantage, my friend. Let us see; with
your thousand crowns from the abbey and the twelve thousand francs you
make by selling sermons, are you rich? Answer frankly.”
“I? I am as poor as Job, and were you to search my pockets and my boxes
I don’t believe you would find a hundred pistoles.”
“_Peste!_ a hundred pistoles!” said D’Artagnan to himself; “he calls
that being as poor as Job! If I had them I should think myself as rich
as Crœsus.” Then aloud: “Are you ambitious?”
“As Enceladus.”
“Well, my friend, I bring you the means of becoming rich, powerful, and
free to do whatever you wish.”
The shadow of a cloud passed over Aramis’s face as quickly as that
which in August passes over the field of grain; but quick as it was, it
did not escape D’Artagnan’s observation.
“Speak on,” said Aramis.
“One question first. Do you take any interest in politics?”
A gleam of light shone in Aramis’s eyes, as brief as the shadow that
had passed over his face, but not so brief but that it was seen by
D’Artagnan.
“No,” Aramis replied.
“Then proposals from any quarter will be agreeable to you, since for
the moment you have no master but God?”
“It is possible.”
“Have you, my dear Aramis, thought sometimes of those happy, happy,
happy days of youth we passed laughing, drinking, and fighting each
other for play?”
“Certainly, and more than once regretted them; it was indeed a glorious
time.”
“Well, those splendidly wild days may chance to come again; I am
commissioned to find out my companions and I began by you, who were the
very soul of our society.”
Aramis bowed, rather with respect than pleasure at the compliment.
“To meddle in politics,” he exclaimed, in a languid voice, leaning back
in his easy-chair. “Ah! dear D’Artagnan! see how regularly I live and
how easy I am here. We have experienced the ingratitude of ‘the great,’
as you well know.”
“’Tis true,” replied D’Artagnan. “Yet the great sometimes repent of
their ingratitude.”
“In that case it would be quite another thing. Come! let’s be merciful
to every sinner! Besides, you are right in another respect, which is in
thinking that if we were to meddle in politics there could not be a
better time than the present.”
“How can you know that? You who never interest yourself in politics?”
“Ah! without caring about them myself, I live among those who are much
occupied in them. Poet as I am, I am intimate with Sarazin, who is
devoted to the Prince de Conti, and with Monsieur de Bois-Robert, who,
since the death of Cardinal Richelieu, is of all parties or any party;
so that political discussions have not altogether been uninteresting to
me.”
“I have no doubt of it,” said D’Artagnan.
“Now, my dear friend, look upon all I tell you as merely the statement
of a monk—of a man who resembles an echo—repeating simply what he
hears. I understand that Mazarin is at this very moment extremely
uneasy as to the state of affairs; that his orders are not respected
like those of our former bugbear, the deceased cardinal, whose portrait
as you see hangs yonder—for whatever may be thought of him, it must be
allowed that Richelieu was great.”
“I will not contradict you there,” said D’Artagnan.
“My first impressions were favorable to the minister; I said to myself
that a minister is never loved, but that with the genius this one was
said to have he would eventually triumph over his enemies and would
make himself feared, which in my opinion is much more to be desired
than to be loved——”
D’Artagnan made a sign with his head which indicated that he entirely
approved that doubtful maxim.
“This, then,” continued Aramis, “was my first opinion; but as I am very
ignorant in matters of this kind and as the humility which I profess
obliges me not to rest on my own judgment, but to ask the opinion of
others, I have inquired—Eh!—my friend——”
Aramis paused.
“Well? what?” asked his friend.
“Well, I must mortify myself. I must confess that I was mistaken.
Monsieur de Mazarin is not a man of genius, as I thought, he is a man
of no origin—once a servant of Cardinal Bentivoglio, and he got on by
intrigue. He is an upstart, a man of no name, who will only be the tool
of a party in France. He will amass wealth, he will injure the king’s
revenue and pay to himself the pensions which Richelieu paid to others.
He is neither a gentleman in manner nor in feeling, but a sort of
buffoon, a punchinello, a pantaloon. Do you know him? _I_ do not.”
“Hem!” said D’Artagnan, “there is some truth in what you say.”
“Ah! it fills me with pride to find that, thanks to a common sort of
penetration with which I am endowed, I am approved by a man like you,
fresh from the court.”
“But you speak of him, not of his party, his resources.”
“It is true—the queen is for him.”
“Something in his favor.”
“But he will never have the king.”
“A mere child.”
“A child who will be of age in four years. Then he has neither the
parliament nor the people with him—they represent the wealth of the
country; nor the nobles nor the princes, who are the military power of
France.”
D’Artagnan scratched his ear. He was forced to confess to himself that
this reasoning was not only comprehensive, but just.
“You see, my poor friend, that I am sometimes bereft of my ordinary
thoughtfulness; perhaps I am wrong in speaking thus to you, who have
evidently a leaning to Mazarin.”
“I!” cried D’Artagnan, “not in the least.”
“You spoke of a mission.”
“Did I? I was wrong then, no, I said what you say—there is a crisis at
hand. Well! let’s fly the feather before the wind; let us join with
that side to which the wind will carry it and resume our adventurous
life. We were once four valiant knights—four hearts fondly united; let
us unite again, not our hearts, which have never been severed, but our
courage and our fortunes. Here’s a good opportunity for getting
something better than a diamond.”
“You are right, D’Artagnan; I held a similar project, but as I had not
nor ever shall have your fruitful, vigorous imagination, the idea was
suggested to me. Every one nowadays wants auxiliaries; propositions
have been made to me and I confess to you frankly that the coadjutor
has made me speak out.”
“Monsieur de Gondy! the cardinal’s enemy?”
“No; the king’s friend,” said Aramis; “the king’s friend, you
understand. Well, it is a question of serving the king, the gentleman’s
duty.”
“But the king is with Mazarin.”
“He is, but not willingly; in appearance, not heart; and that is
exactly the snare the king’s enemies are preparing for the poor child.”
“Ah! but this is, indeed, civil war which you propose to me, dear
Aramis.”
“War for the king.”
“Yet the king will be at the head of the army on Mazarin’s side.”
“But his heart will be in the army commanded by the Duc de Beaufort.”
“Monsieur de Beaufort? He is at Vincennes.”
“Did I say Monsieur de Beaufort? Monsieur de Beaufort or another.
Monsieur de Beaufort or Monsieur le Prince.”
“But Monsieur le Prince is to set out for the army; he is entirely
devoted to the cardinal.”
“Oh oh!” said Aramis, “there are questions between them at this very
moment. And besides, if it is not the prince, then Monsieur de Gondy——”
“But Monsieur de Gondy is to be made a cardinal; they are soliciting
the hat for him.”
“And are there no cardinals that can fight? Come now, recall the four
cardinals that at the head of armies have equalled Monsieur de
Guebriant and Monsieur de Gassion.”
“But a humpbacked general!
“Under the cuirass the hump will not be seen. Besides, remember that
Alexander was lame and Hannibal had but one eye.”
“Do you see any great advantage in adhering to this party?” asked
D’Artagnan.
“I foresee in it the aid of powerful princes.”
“With the enmity of the government.”
“Counteracted by parliament and insurrections.”
“That may be done if they can separate the king from his mother.”
“That _may_ be done,” said Aramis.
“Never!” cried D’Artagnan. “You, Aramis, know Anne of Austria better
than I do. Do you think she will ever forget that her son is her
safeguard, her shield, the pledge for her dignity, for her fortune and
her life? Should she forsake Mazarin she must join her son and go over
to the princes’ side; but you know better than I do that there are
certain reasons why she can never abandon Mazarin.”
“Perhaps you are right,” said Aramis, thoughtfully; “therefore I shall
not pledge myself.”
“To them or to us, do you mean, Aramis?”
“To no one. I am a priest,” resumed Aramis. “What have I to do with
politics? I am not obliged to read any breviary. I have a jolly little
circle of witty abbés and pretty women; everything goes on smoothly, so
certainly, dear friend, I shall not meddle in politics.”
“Well, listen, my dear Aramis,” said D’Artagnan; “your philosophy
convinces me, on my honor. I don’t know what devil of an insect stung
me and made me ambitious. I have a post by which I live; at the death
of Monsieur de Tréville, who is old, I may be a captain, which is a
very snug berth for a once penniless Gascon. Instead of running after
adventures I shall accept an invitation from Porthos; I shall go and
shoot on his estate. You know he has estates—Porthos?”
“I should think so, indeed. Ten leagues of wood, of marsh land and
valleys; he is lord of the hill and the plain and is now carrying on a
suit for his feudal rights against the Bishop of Noyon!”
“Good,” said D’Artagnan to himself. “That’s what I wanted to know.
Porthos is in Picardy.”
Then aloud:
“And he has taken his ancient name of Vallon?”
“To which he adds that of Bracieux, an estate which has been a barony,
by my troth.”
“So that Porthos will be a baron.”
“I don’t doubt it. The ‘Baroness Porthos’ will sound particularly
charming.”
And the two friends began to laugh.
“So,” D’Artagnan resumed, “you will not become a partisan of
Mazarin’s?”
“Nor you of the Prince de Condé?”
“No, let us belong to no party, but remain friends; let us be neither
Cardinalists nor Frondists.”
“Adieu, then.” And D’Artagnan poured out a glass of wine.
“To old times,” he said.
“Yes,” returned Aramis. “Unhappily, those times are past.”
“Nonsense! They will return,” said D’Artagnan. “At all events, if you
want me, remember the Rue Tiquetonne, Hotel de la Chevrette.”
“And I shall be at the convent of Jesuits; from six in the morning to
eight at night come by the door. From eight in the evening until six in
the morning come in by the window.”
“Adieu, dear friend.”
“Oh, I can’t let you go so! I will go with you.” And he took his sword
and cloak.
“He wants to be sure that I go away,” said D’Artagnan to himself.
Aramis whistled for Bazin, but Bazin was asleep in the ante-chamber,
and Aramis was obliged to shake him by the ear to awake him.
Bazin stretched his arms, rubbed his eyes, and tried to go to sleep
again.
“Come, come, sleepy head; quick, the ladder!”
“But,” said Bazin, yawning portentously, “the ladder is still at the
window.”
“The other one, the gardener’s. Didn’t you see that Monsieur d’Artagnan
mounted with difficulty? It will be even more difficult to descend.”
D’Artagnan was about to assure Aramis that he could descend easily,
when an idea came into his head which silenced him.
Bazin uttered a profound sigh and went out to look for the ladder.
Presently a good, solid, wooden ladder was placed against the window.
“Now then,” said D’Artagnan, “this is something like; this is a means
of communication. A woman could go up a ladder like that.”
Aramis’s searching look seemed to seek his friend’s thought even at the
bottom of his heart, but D’Artagnan sustained the inquisition with an
air of admirable simplicity. Besides, at that moment he put his foot on
the first step of the ladder and began his descent. In a moment he was
on the ground. Bazin remained at the window.
“Stay there,” said Aramis; “I shall return immediately.”
The two friends went toward the shed. At their approach Planchet came
out leading the two horses.
“That is good to see,” said Aramis. “There is a servant active and
vigilant, not like that lazy fellow Bazin, who is no longer good for
anything since he became connected with the church. Follow us,
Planchet; we shall continue our conversation to the end of the
village.”
They traversed the width of the village, talking of indifferent things,
then as they reached the last houses:
“Go, then, dear friend,” said Aramis, “follow your own career. Fortune
lavishes her smiles upon you; do not let her flee from your embrace. As
for me, I remain in my humility and indolence. Adieu!”
“Thus ’tis quite decided,” said D’Artagnan, “that what I have to offer
to you does not tempt you?”
“On the contrary, it would tempt me were I any other man,” rejoined
Aramis; “but I repeat, I am made up of contradictions. What I hate
to-day I adore to-morrow, and vice versa. You see that I cannot, like
you, for instance, settle on any fixed plan.”
“Thou liest, subtile one,” said D’Artagnan to himself. “Thou alone, on
the contrary, knowest how to choose thy object and to gain it
stealthily.”
The friends embraced. They descended into the plain by the ladder.
Planchet met them hard by the shed. D’Artagnan jumped into the saddle,
then the old companions in arms again shook hands. D’Artagnan and
Planchet spurred their steeds and took the road to Paris.
But after he had gone about two hundred steps D’Artagnan stopped short,
alighted, threw the bridle of his horse over the arm of Planchet and
took the pistols from his saddle-bow to fasten them to his girdle.
“What’s the matter?” asked Planchet.
“This is the matter: be he ever so cunning he shall never say I was his
dupe. Stand here, don’t stir, turn your back to the road and wait for
me.”
Having thus spoken, D’Artagnan cleared the ditch by the roadside and
crossed the plain so as to wind around the village. He had observed
between the house that Madame de Longueville inhabited and the convent
of the Jesuits, an open space surrounded by a hedge.
The moon had now risen and he could see well enough to retrace his
road.
He reached the hedge and hid himself behind it; in passing by the house
where the scene which we have related took place, he remarked that the
window was again lighted up and he was convinced that Aramis had not
yet returned to his own apartment and that when he did it would not be
alone.
In truth, in a few minutes he heard steps approaching and low whispers.
Close to the hedge the steps stopped.
D’Artagnan knelt down near the thickest part of the hedge.
Two men, to the astonishment of D’Artagnan, appeared shortly; soon,
however, his surprise vanished, for he heard the murmurs of a soft,
harmonious voice; one of these two men was a woman disguised as a
cavalier.
“Calm yourself, dear Rene,” said the soft voice, “the same thing will
never happen again. I have discovered a sort of subterranean passage
which runs beneath the street and we shall only have to raise one of
the marble slabs before the door to open you an entrance and an
outlet.”
“Oh!” answered another voice, which D’Artagnan instantly recognized as
that of Aramis. “I swear to you, princess, that if your reputation did
not depend on precautions and if my life alone were jeopardized——”
“Yes, yes! I know you are as brave and venturesome as any man in the
world, but you do not belong to me alone; you belong to all our party.
Be prudent! sensible!”
“I always obey, madame, when I am commanded by so gentle a voice.”
He kissed her hand tenderly.
“Ah!” exclaimed the cavalier with a soft voice.
“What’s the matter?” asked Aramis.
“Do you not see that the wind has blown off my hat?”
Aramis rushed after the fugitive hat. D’Artagnan took advantage of the
circumstance to find a place in the hedge not so thick, where his
glance could penetrate to the supposed cavalier. At that instant, the
moon, inquisitive, perhaps, like D’Artagnan, came from behind a cloud
and by her light D’Artagnan recognized the large blue eyes, the golden
hair and the classic head of the Duchess de Longueville.
Aramis returned, laughing, one hat on his head and the other in his
hand; and he and his companion resumed their walk toward the convent.
“Good!” said D’Artagnan, rising and brushing his knees; “now I have
thee—thou art a Frondeur and the lover of Madame de Longueville.”
Chapter X.
Monsieur Porthos du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds.
Thanks to what Aramis had told him, D’Artagnan, who knew already that
Porthos called himself Du Vallon, was now aware that he styled himself,
from his estate, De Bracieux; and that he was, on account of this
estate, engaged in a lawsuit with the Bishop of Noyon. It was, then, in
the neighborhood of Noyon that he must seek that estate. His itinerary
was promptly determined: he would go to Dammartin, from which place two
roads diverge, one toward Soissons, the other toward Compiègne; there
he would inquire concerning the Bracieux estate and go to the right or
to the left according to the information obtained.
Planchet, who was still a little concerned for his safety after his
recent escapade, declared that he would follow D’Artagnan even to the
end of the world, either by the road to the right or by that to the
left; only he begged his former master to set out in the evening, for
greater security to himself. D’Artagnan suggested that he should send
word to his wife, so that she might not be anxious about him, but
Planchet replied with much sagacity that he was very sure his wife
would not die of anxiety through not knowing where he was, while he,
Planchet, remembering her incontinence of tongue, would die of anxiety
if she did know.
This reasoning seemed to D’Artagnan so satisfactory that he no further
insisted; and about eight o’clock in the evening, the time when the
vapors of night begin to thicken in the streets, he left the Hotel de
la Chevrette, and followed by Planchet set forth from the capital by
way of the Saint Denis gate.
At midnight the two travelers were at Dammartin, but it was then too
late to make inquiries—the host of the Cygne de la Croix had gone to
bed.
The next morning D’Artagnan summoned the host, one of those sly Normans
who say neither yes nor no and fear to commit themselves by giving a
direct answer. D’Artagnan, however, gathered from his equivocal replies
that the road to the right was the one he ought to take, and on that
uncertain information he resumed his journey. At nine in the morning he
reached Nanteuil and stopped for breakfast. His host here was a good
fellow from Picardy, who gave him all the information he needed. The
Bracieux estate was a few leagues from Villars-Cotterets.
D’Artagnan was acquainted with Villars-Cotterets, having gone thither
with the court on several occasions; for at that time Villars-Cotterets
was a royal residence. He therefore shaped his course toward that place
and dismounted at the Dauphin d’Or. There he ascertained that the
Bracieux estate was four leagues distant, but that Porthos was not at
Bracieux. Porthos had, in fact, been involved in a dispute with the
Bishop of Noyon in regard to the Pierrefonds property, which adjoined
his own, and weary at length of a legal controversy which was beyond
his comprehension, he put an end to it by purchasing Pierrefonds and
added that name to his others. He now called himself Du Vallon de
Bracieux de Pierrefonds, and resided on his new estate.
The travelers were therefore obliged to stay at the hotel until the
next day; the horses had done ten leagues that day and needed rest. It
is true they might have taken others, but there was a great forest to
pass through and Planchet, as we have seen, had no liking for forests
after dark.
There was another thing that Planchet had no liking for and that was
starting on a journey with a hungry stomach. Accordingly, D’Artagnan,
on awaking, found his breakfast waiting for him. It need not be said
that Planchet in resuming his former functions resumed also his former
humility and was not ashamed to make his breakfast on what was left by
D’Artagnan.
It was nearly eight o’clock when they set out again. Their course was
clearly defined: they were to follow the road toward Compiègne and on
emerging from the forest turn to the right.
The morning was beautiful, and in this early springtime the birds sang
on the trees and the sunbeams shone through the misty glades, like
curtains of golden gauze.
In other parts of the forest the light could scarcely penetrate through
the foliage, and the stems of two old oak trees, the refuge of the
squirrel, startled by the travelers, were in deep shadow.
There came up from all nature in the dawn of day a perfume of herbs,
flowers and leaves, which delighted the heart. D’Artagnan, sick of the
closeness of Paris, thought that when a man had three names of his
different estates joined one to another, he ought to be very happy in
such a paradise; then he shook his head, saying, “If I were Porthos and
D’Artagnan came to make me such a proposition as I am going to make to
him, I know what I should say to it.”
As to Planchet, he thought of little or nothing, but was happy as a
hunting-hound in his old master’s company.
At the extremity of the wood D’Artagnan perceived the road that had
been described to him, and at the end of the road he saw the towers of
an immense feudal castle.
“Oh! oh!” he said, “I fancied this castle belonged to the ancient
branch of Orléans. Can Porthos have negotiated for it with the Duc de
Longueville?”
“Faith!” exclaimed Planchet, “here’s land in good condition; if it
belongs to Monsieur Porthos I wish him joy.”
“Zounds!” cried D’Artagnan, “don’t call him Porthos, nor even Vallon;
call him De Bracieux or De Pierrefonds; thou wilt knell out damnation
to my mission otherwise.”
As he approached the castle which had first attracted his eye,
D’Artagnan was convinced that it could not be there that his friend
dwelt; the towers, though solid and as if built yesterday, were open
and broken. One might have fancied that some giant had cleaved them
with blows from a hatchet.
On arriving at the extremity of the castle D’Artagnan found himself
overlooking a beautiful valley, in which, at the foot of a charming
little lake, stood several scattered houses, which, humble in their
aspect, and covered, some with tiles, others with thatch, seemed to
acknowledge as their sovereign lord a pretty château, built about the
beginning of the reign of Henry IV., and surmounted by four stately,
gilded weather-cocks. D’Artagnan no longer doubted that this was
Porthos’s pleasant dwelling place.
The road led straight up to the château which, compared to its ancestor
on the hill, was exactly what a fop of the coterie of the Duc d’Enghein
would have been beside a knight in steel armor in the time of Charles
VII. D’Artagnan spurred his horse on and pursued his road, followed by
Planchet at the same pace.
In ten minutes D’Artagnan reached the end of an alley regularly planted
with fine poplars and terminating in an iron gate, the points and
crossed bars of which were gilt. In the midst of this avenue was a
nobleman, dressed in green and with as much gilding about him as the
iron gate, riding on a tall horse. On his right hand and his left were
two footmen, with the seams of their dresses laced. A considerable
number of clowns were assembled and rendered homage to their lord.
“Ah!” said D’Artagnan to himself, “can this be the Seigneur du Vallon
de Bracieux de Pierrefonds? Well-a-day! how he has shrunk since he gave
up the name of Porthos!”
“This cannot be Monsieur Porthos,” observed Planchet replying, as it
were, to his master’s thoughts. “Monsieur Porthos was six feet high;
this man is scarcely five.”
“Nevertheless,” said D’Artagnan, “the people are bowing very low to
this person.”
As he spoke, he rode toward the tall horse—to the man of importance and
his valets. As he approached he seemed to recognize the features of
this individual.
“Jesu!” cried Planchet, “can it be?”
At this exclamation the man on horseback turned slowly and with a lofty
air, and the two travelers could see, displayed in all their
brilliancy, the large eyes, the vermilion visage, and the eloquent
smile of—Mousqueton.
It was indeed Mousqueton—Mousqueton, as fat as a pig, rolling about
with rude health, puffed out with good living, who, recognizing
D’Artagnan and acting very differently from the hypocrite Bazin,
slipped off his horse and approached the officer with his hat off, so
that the homage of the assembled crowd was turned toward this new sun,
which eclipsed the former luminary.
“Monsieur d’Artagnan! Monsieur d’Artagnan!” cried Mousqueton, his fat
cheeks swelling out and his whole frame perspiring with joy; “Monsieur
d’Artagnan! oh! what joy for my lord and master, Du Vallon de Bracieux
de Pierrefonds!”
“Thou good Mousqueton! _where_ is thy master?”
“You stand upon his property!”
“But how handsome thou art—how fat! thou hast prospered and grown
stout!” and D’Artagnan could not restrain his astonishment at the
change good fortune had produced on the once famished one.
“Hey, yes, thank God, I am pretty well,” said Mousqueton.
“But hast thou nothing to say to thy friend Planchet?”
“How, my friend Planchet? Planchet—art thou there?” cried Mousqueton,
with open arms and eyes full of tears.
“My very self,” replied Planchet; “but I wanted first to see if thou
wert grown proud.”
“Proud toward an old friend? never, Planchet! thou wouldst not have
thought so hadst thou known Mousqueton well.”
“So far so well,” answered Planchet, alighting, and extending his arms
to Mousqueton, the two servants embraced with an emotion which touched
those who were present and made them suppose that Planchet was a great
lord in disguise, so highly did they estimate the position of
Mousqueton.
“And now, sir,” resumed Mousqueton, when he had rid himself of
Planchet, who had in vain tried to clasp his hands behind his friend’s
fat back, “now, sir, allow me to leave you, for I could not permit my
master to hear of your arrival from any but myself; he would never
forgive me for not having preceded you.”
“This dear friend,” said D’Artagnan, carefully avoiding to utter either
the former name borne by Porthos or his new one, “then he has not
forgotten me?”
“Forgotten—he!” cried Mousqueton; “there’s not a day, sir, that we
don’t expect to hear that you were made marshal either instead of
Monsieur de Gassion, or of Monsieur de Bassompierre.”
On D’Artagnan’s lips there played one of those rare and melancholy
smiles which seemed to emanate from the depth of his soul—the last
trace of youth and happiness that had survived life’s disillusions.
“And you—fellows,” resumed Mousqueton, “stay near Monsieur le Comte
d’Artagnan and pay him every attention in your power whilst I go to
prepare my lord for his visit.”
And mounting his horse Mousqueton rode off down the avenue on the grass
at a hand gallop.
“Ah, there! there’s something promising,” said D’Artagnan. “No
mysteries, no cloak to hide one’s self in, no cunning policy here;
people laugh outright, they weep for joy here. I see nothing but faces
a yard broad; in short, it seems to me that nature herself wears a
holiday garb, and that the trees, instead of leaves and flowers, are
covered with red and green ribbons as on gala days.”
“As for me,” said Planchet, “I seem to smell, from this place, even, a
most delectable perfume of fine roast meat, and to see the scullions in
a row by the hedge, hailing our approach. Ah! sir, what a cook must
Monsieur Pierrefonds have, when he was so fond of eating and drinking,
even whilst he was only called Monsieur Porthos!”
“Say no more!” cried D’Artagnan. “If the reality corresponds with
appearances I am lost; for a man so well off will never change his
happy condition, and I shall fail with him, as I have already done with
Aramis.”
Chapter XI.
Wealth does not necessarily produce Happiness.
D’Artagnan passed through the iron gate and arrived in front of the
château. He alighted as he saw a species of giant on the steps. Let us
do justice to D’Artagnan. Independently of every selfish wish, his
heart palpitated with joy when he saw that tall form and martial
demeanor, which recalled to him a good and brave man.
He ran to Porthos and threw himself into his arms; the whole body of
servants, arranged in a semi-circle at a respectful distance, looked on
with humble curiosity. Mousqueton, at the head of them, wiped his eyes.
Porthos linked his arm in that of his friend.
“Ah! how delightful to see you again, dear friend!” he cried, in a
voice which was now changed from a baritone into a bass, “you’ve not
then forgotten me?”
“Forget you! oh! dear Du Vallon, does one forget the happiest days of
flowery youth, one’s dearest friends, the dangers we have dared
together? On the contrary, there is not an hour we have passed together
that is not present to my memory.”
“Yes, yes,” said Porthos, trying to give to his mustache a curl which
it had lost whilst he had been alone. “Yes, we did some fine things in
our time and we gave that poor cardinal a few threads to unravel.”
And he heaved a sigh.
“Under any circumstances,” he resumed, “you are welcome, my dear
friend; you will help me to recover my spirits; to-morrow we will hunt
the hare on my plain, which is a superb tract of land, or pursue the
deer in my woods, which are magnificent. I have four harriers which are
considered the swiftest in the county, and a pack of hounds which are
unequalled for twenty leagues around.”
And Porthos heaved another sigh.
“But, first,” interposed D’Artagnan, “you must present me to Madame du
Vallon.”
A third sigh from Porthos.
“I lost Madame du Vallon two years ago,” he said, “and you find me
still in affliction on that account. That was the reason why I left my
Château du Vallon near Corbeil, and came to my estate, Bracieux. Poor
Madame du Vallon! her temper was uncertain, but she came at last to
accustom herself to my little ways and understand my little wishes.”
“So you are free now, and rich?”
“Alas!” groaned Porthos, “I am a widower and have forty thousand francs
a year. Let us go to breakfast.”
“I shall be happy to do so; the morning air has made me hungry.”
“Yes,” said Porthos; “my air is excellent.”
They went into the château; there was nothing but gilding, high and
low; the cornices were gilt, the mouldings were gilt, the legs and arms
of the chairs were gilt. A table, ready set out, awaited them.
“You see,” said Porthos, “this is my usual style.”
“Devil take me!” answered D’Artagnan, “I wish you joy of it. The king
has nothing like it.”
“No,” answered Porthos, “I hear it said that he is very badly fed by
the cardinal, Monsieur de Mazarin. Taste this cutlet, my dear
D’Artagnan; ’tis off one of my sheep.”
“You have very tender mutton and I wish you joy of it.” said
D’Artagnan.
“Yes, the sheep are fed in my meadows, which are excellent pasture.”
“Give me another cutlet.”
“No, try this hare, which I had killed yesterday in one of my warrens.”
“Zounds! what a flavor!” cried D’Artagnan; “ah! they are fed on thyme
only, your hares.”
“And how do you like my wine?” asked Porthos; “it is pleasant, isn’t
it?”
“Capital!”
“It is nothing, however, but a wine of the country.”
“Really?”
“Yes, a small declivity to the south, yonder on my hill, gives me
twenty hogsheads.”
“Quite a vineyard, hey?”
Porthos sighed for the fifth time—D’Artagnan had counted his sighs. He
became curious to solve the problem.
“Well now,” he said, “it seems, my dear friend, that something vexes
you; you are ill, perhaps? That health, which——”
“Excellent, my dear friend; better than ever. I could kill an ox with a
blow of my fist.”
“Well, then, family affairs, perhaps?”
“Family! I have, happily, only myself in the world to care for.”
“But what makes you sigh?”
“My dear fellow,” replied Porthos, “to be candid with you, I am not
happy.”
“You are not happy, Porthos? You who have château, meadows, mountains,
woods—you who have forty thousand francs a year—_you—are—not—happy?_”
“My dear friend, all those things I have, but I am a hermit in the
midst of superfluity.”
“Surrounded, I suppose, only by clodhoppers, with whom you could not
associate.”
Porthos turned rather pale and drank off a large glass of wine.
“No; but just think, there are paltry country squires who have all some
title or another and pretend to go back as far as Charlemagne, or at
least to Hugh Capet. When I first came here; being the last comer, it
was for me to make the first advances. I made them, but you know, my
dear friend, Madame du Vallon——”
Porthos, in pronouncing these words, seemed to gulp down something.
“Madame du Vallon was of doubtful gentility. She had, in her first
marriage—I don’t think, D’Artagnan, I am telling you anything
new—married a lawyer; they thought that ‘nauseous;’ you can understand
that’s a word bad enough to make one kill thirty thousand men. I _have_
killed two, which has made people hold their tongues, but has not made
me their friend. So that I have no society; I live alone; I am sick of
it—my mind preys on itself.”
D’Artagnan smiled. He now saw where the breastplate was weak, and
prepared the blow.
“But now,” he said, “that you are a widower, your wife’s connection
cannot injure you.”
“Yes, but understand me; not being of a race of historic fame, like the
De Courcys, who were content to be plain sirs, or the Rohans, who
didn’t wish to be dukes, all these people, who are all either vicomtes
or comtes go before me at church in all the ceremonies, and I can say
nothing to them. Ah! If I only were a——”
“A baron, don’t you mean?” cried D’Artagnan, finishing his friend’s
sentence.
“Ah!” cried Porthos; “would I were but a baron!”
“Well, my friend, I am come to give you this very title which you wish
for so much.”
Porthos gave a start that shook the room; two or three bottles fell and
were broken. Mousqueton ran thither, hearing the noise.
Porthos waved his hand to Mousqueton to pick up the bottles.
“I am glad to see,” said D’Artagnan, “that you have still that honest
lad with you.”
“He is my steward,” replied Porthos; “he will never leave me. Go away
now, Mouston.”
“So he’s called Mouston,” thought D’Artagnan; “’tis too long a word to
pronounce ‘Mousqueton.’”
“Well,” he said aloud, “let us resume our conversation later, your
people may suspect something; there may be spies about. You can
suppose, Porthos, that what I have to say relates to most important
matters.”
“Devil take them; let us walk in the park,” answered Porthos, “for the
sake of digestion.”
“Egad,” said D’Artagnan, “the park is like everything else and there
are as many fish in your pond as rabbits in your warren; you are a
happy man, my friend since you have not only retained your love of the
chase, but acquired that of fishing.”
“My friend,” replied Porthos, “I leave fishing to Mousqueton,—it is a
vulgar pleasure,—but I shoot sometimes; that is to say, when I am dull,
and I sit on one of those marble seats, have my gun brought to me, my
favorite dog, and I shoot rabbits.”
“Really, how very amusing!”
“Yes,” replied Porthos, with a sigh, “it _is_ amusing.”
D’Artagnan now no longer counted the sighs. They were innumerable.
“However, what had you to say to me?” he resumed; “let us return to
that subject.”
“With pleasure,” replied D’Artagnan; “I must, however, first frankly
tell you that you must change your mode of life.”
“How?”
“Go into harness again, gird on your sword, run after adventures, and
leave as in old times a little of your fat on the roadside.”
“Ah! hang it!” said Porthos.
“I see you are spoiled, dear friend; you are corpulent, your arm has no
longer that movement of which the late cardinal’s guards have so many
proofs.”
“Ah! my fist is strong enough I swear,” cried Porthos, extending a hand
like a shoulder of mutton.
“So much the better.”
“Are we then to go to war?”
“By my troth, yes.”
“Against whom?”
“Are you a politician, friend?”
“Not in the least.”
“Are you for Mazarin or for the princes?”
“I am for no one.”
“That is to say, you are for us. Well, I tell you that I come to you
from the cardinal.”
This speech was heard by Porthos in the same sense as if it had still
been in the year 1640 and related to the true cardinal.
“Ho! ho! What are the wishes of his eminence?”
“He wishes to have you in his service.”
“And who spoke to him of me?”
“Rochefort—you remember him?”
“Yes, _pardieu!_ It was he who gave us so much trouble and kept us on
the road so much; you gave him three sword-wounds in three separate
engagements.”
“But you know he is now our friend?”
“No, I didn’t know that. So he cherishes no resentment?”
“You are mistaken, Porthos,” said D’Artagnan. “It is I who cherish no
resentment.”
Porthos didn’t understand any too clearly; but then we know that
understanding was not his strong point. “You say, then,” he continued,
“that the Count de Rochefort spoke of me to the cardinal?”
“Yes, and the queen, too.”
“The queen, do you say?”
“To inspire us with confidence she has even placed in Mazarin’s hands
that famous diamond—you remember all about it—that I once sold to
Monsieur des Essarts and of which, I don’t know how, she has regained
possession.”
“But it seems to me,” said Porthos, “that she would have done much
better if she had given it back to you.”
“So I think,” replied D’Artagnan; “but kings and queens are strange
beings and have odd fancies; nevertheless, since they are the ones who
have riches and honors, we are devoted to them.”
“Yes, we are devoted to them,” repeated Porthos; “and you—to whom are
you devoted now?”
“To the king, the queen, and to the cardinal; moreover, I have answered
for your devotion also.”
“And you say that you have made certain conditions on my behalf?”
“Magnificent, my dear fellow, magnificent! In the first place you have
plenty of money, haven’t you? forty thousand francs income, I think you
said.”
Porthos began to be suspicious. “Eh! my friend,” said he, “one never
has too much money. Madame du Vallon left things in much disorder; I am
not much of a hand at figures, so that I live almost from hand to
mouth.”
“He is afraid I have come to borrow money,” thought D’Artagnan. “Ah, my
friend,” said he, “it is all the better if you are in difficulties.”
“How is it all the better?”
“Yes, for his eminence will give you all that you want—land, money, and
titles.”
“Ah! ah! ah!” said Porthos, opening his eyes at that last word.
“Under the other cardinal,” continued D’Artagnan, “we didn’t know
enough to make our profits; this, however, doesn’t concern you, with
your forty thousand francs income, the happiest man in the world, it
seems to me.”
Porthos sighed.
“At the same time,” continued D’Artagnan, “notwithstanding your forty
thousand francs a year, and perhaps even for the very reason that you
have forty thousand francs a year, it seems to me that a little coronet
would do well on your carriage, hey?”
“Yes indeed,” said Porthos.
“Well, my dear friend, win it—it is at the point of your sword. We
shall not interfere with each other—your object is a title; mine,
money. If I can get enough to rebuild Artagnan, which my ancestors,
impoverished by the Crusades, allowed to fall into ruins, and to buy
thirty acres of land about it, that is all I wish. I shall retire and
die tranquilly—at home.”
“For my part,” said Porthos, “I desire to be made a baron.”
“You shall be one.”
“And have you not seen any of our other friends?”
“Yes, I have seen Aramis.”
“And what does he wish? To be a bishop?”
“Aramis,” answered D’Artagnan, who did not wish to undeceive Porthos,
“Aramis, fancy, has become a monk and a Jesuit, and lives like a bear.
My offers did not arouse him,—did not even tempt him.”
“So much the worse! He was a clever man. And Athos?”
“I have not yet seen him. Do you know where I shall find him?”
“Near Blois. He is called Bragelonne. Only imagine, my dear friend.
Athos, who was of as high birth as the emperor and who inherits one
estate which gives him the title of comte, what is he to do with all
those dignities—the Comte de la Fère, Comte de Bragelonne?”
“And he has no children with all these titles?”
“Ah!” said Porthos, “I have heard that he had adopted a young man who
resembles him greatly.”
“What, Athos? Our Athos, who was as virtuous as Scipio? Have you seen
him?
“No.”
“Well, I shall see him to-morrow and tell him about you; but I’m
afraid, _entre nous_, that his liking for wine has aged and degraded
him.”
“Yes, he used to drink a great deal,” replied Porthos.
“And then he was older than any of us,” added D’Artagnan.
“Some years only. His gravity made him look older than he was.”
“Well then, if we can get Athos, all will be well. If we cannot, we
will do without him. We two are worth a dozen.”
“Yes,” said Porthos, smiling at the remembrance of his former exploits;
“but we four, altogether, would be equal to thirty-six, more especially
as you say the work will not be child’s play. Will it last long?”
“By’r Lady! two or three years perhaps.”
“So much the better,” cried Porthos. “You have no idea, my friend, how
my bones ache since I came here. Sometimes on a Sunday, I take a ride
in the fields and on the property of my neighbours, in order to pick up
a nice little quarrel, which I am really in want of, but nothing
happens. Either they respect or they fear me, which is more likely, but
they let me trample down the clover with my dogs, insult and obstruct
every one, and I come back still more weary and low-spirited, that’s
all. At any rate, tell me: there’s more chance of fighting in Paris, is
there not?”
“In that respect, my dear friend, it’s delightful. No more edicts, no
more of the cardinal’s guards, no more De Jussacs, nor other
bloodhounds. I’Gad! underneath a lamp in an inn, anywhere, they ask
‘Are you one of the Fronde?’ They unsheathe, and that’s all that is
said. The Duke de Guise killed Monsieur de Coligny in the Place Royale
and nothing was said of it.”
“Ah, things go on gaily, then,” said Porthos.
“Besides which, in a short time,” resumed D’Artagnan, “We shall have
set battles, cannonades, conflagrations and there will be great
variety.”
“Well, then, I decide.”
“I have your word, then?”
“Yes, ’tis given. I shall fight heart and soul for Mazarin; but——”
“But?”
“But he must make me a baron.”
“Zounds!” said D’Artagnan, “that’s settled already; I will be
responsible for the barony.”
On this promise being given, Porthos, who had never doubted his
friend’s assurance, turned back with him toward the castle.
Chapter XII.
Porthos was Discontented with his Condition.
As they returned toward the castle, D’Artagnan thought of the miseries
of poor human nature, always dissatisfied with what it has, ever
desirous of what it has not.
In the position of Porthos, D’Artagnan would have been perfectly happy;
and to make Porthos contented there was wanting—what? five letters to
put before his three names, a tiny coronet to paint upon the panels of
his carriage!
“I shall pass all my life,” thought D’Artagnan, “in seeking for a man
who is really contented with his lot.”
Whilst making this reflection, chance seemed, as it were, to give him
the lie direct. When Porthos had left him to give some orders he saw
Mousqueton approaching. The face of the steward, despite one slight
shade of care, light as a summer cloud, seemed a physiognomy of
absolute felicity.
“Here is what I am looking for,” thought D’Artagnan; “but alas! the
poor fellow does not know the purpose for which I am here.”
He then made a sign for Mousqueton to come to him.
“Sir,” said the servant, “I have a favour to ask you.”
“Speak out, my friend.”
“I am afraid to do so. Perhaps you will think, sir, that prosperity has
spoiled me?”
“Art thou happy, friend?” asked D’Artagnan.
“As happy as possible; and yet, sir, you may make me even happier than
I am.”
“Well, speak, if it depends on me.”
“Oh, sir! it depends on you only.”
“I listen—I am waiting to hear.”
“Sir, the favor I have to ask of you is, not to call me ‘Mousqueton’
but ‘Mouston.’ Since I have had the honor of being my lord’s steward I
have taken the last name as more dignified and calculated to make my
inferiors respect me. You, sir, know how necessary subordination is in
any large establishment of servants.”
D’Artagnan smiled; Porthos wanted to lengthen out his names, Mousqueton
to cut his short.
“Well, my dear Mouston,” he said, “rest satisfied. I will call thee
Mouston; and if it makes thee happy I will not ‘tutoyer’ you any
longer.”
“Oh!” cried Mousqueton, reddening with joy; “if you do me, sir, such
honor, I shall be grateful all my life; it is too much to ask.”
“Alas!” thought D’Artagnan, “it is very little to offset the unexpected
tribulations I am bringing to this poor devil who has so warmly
welcomed me.”
“Will monsieur remain long with us?” asked Mousqueton, with a serene
and glowing countenance.
“I go to-morrow, my friend,” replied D’Artagnan.
“Ah, monsieur,” said Mousqueton, “then you have come here only to
awaken our regrets.”
“I fear that is true,” said D’Artagnan, in a low tone.
D’Artagnan was secretly touched with remorse, not at inducing Porthos
to enter into schemes in which his life and fortune would be in
jeopardy, for Porthos, in the title of baron, had his object and
reward; but poor Mousqueton, whose only wish was to be called
Mouston—was it not cruel to snatch him from the delightful state of
peace and plenty in which he was?
He was thinking of these matters when Porthos summoned him to dinner.
“What! to dinner?” said D’Artagnan. “What time is it, then?”
“Eh! why, it is after one o’clock.”
“Your home is a paradise, Porthos; one takes no note of time. I follow
you, though I am not hungry.”
“Come, if one can’t always eat, one can always drink—a maxim of poor
Athos, the truth of which I have discovered since I began to be
lonely.”
D’Artagnan, who as a Gascon, was inclined to sobriety, seemed not so
sure as his friend of the truth of Athos’s maxim, but he did his best
to keep up with his host. Meanwhile his misgivings in regard to
Mousqueton recurred to his mind and with greater force because
Mousqueton, though he did not himself wait on the table, which would
have been beneath him in his new position, appeared at the door from
time to time and evinced his gratitude to D’Artagnan by the quality of
the wine he directed to be served. Therefore, when, at dessert, upon a
sign from D’Artagnan, Porthos had sent away his servants and the two
friends were alone:
“Porthos,” said D’Artagnan, “who will attend you in your campaigns?”
“Why,” replied Porthos, “Mouston, of course.”
This was a blow to D’Artagnan. He could already see the intendant’s
beaming smile change to a contortion of grief. “But,” he said, “Mouston
is not so young as he was, my dear fellow; besides, he has grown fat
and perhaps has lost his fitness for active service.”
“That may be true,” replied Porthos; “but I am used to him, and
besides, he wouldn’t be willing to let me go without him, he loves me
so much.”
“Oh, blind self-love!” thought D’Artagnan.
“And you,” asked Porthos, “haven’t you still in your service your old
lackey, that good, that brave, that intelligent—-what, then, is his
name?”
“Planchet—yes, I have found him again, but he is lackey no longer.”
“What is he, then?”
“With his sixteen hundred francs—you remember, the sixteen hundred
francs he earned at the siege of La Rochelle by carrying a letter to
Lord de Winter—he has set up a little shop in the Rue des Lombards and
is now a confectioner.”
“Ah, he is a confectioner in the Rue des Lombards! How does it happen,
then, that he is in your service?”
“He has been guilty of certain escapades and fears he may be
disturbed.” And the musketeer narrated to his friend Planchet’s
adventure.
“Well,” said Porthos, “if any one had told you in the old times that
the day would come when Planchet would rescue Rochefort and that you
would protect him in it——”
“I should not have believed him; but men are changed by events.”
“There is nothing truer than that,” said Porthos; “but what does not
change, or changes for the better, is wine. Taste of this; it is a
Spanish wine which our friend Athos thought much of.”
At that moment the steward came in to consult his master upon the
proceedings of the next day and also with regard to the shooting party
which had been proposed.
“Tell me, Mouston,” said Porthos, “are my arms in good condition?”
“Your arms, my lord—what arms?”
“Zounds! my weapons.”
“What weapons?”
“My military weapons.”
“Yes, my lord; at any rate, I _think_ so.”
“Make sure of it, and if they want it, have them burnished up. Which is
my best cavalry horse?”
“Vulcan.”
“And the best hack?”
“Bayard.”
“What horse dost thou choose for thyself?”
“I like Rustaud, my lord; a good animal, whose paces suit me.”
“Strong, thinkest thou?”
“Half Norman, half Mecklenburger; will go night and day.”
“That will do for us. See to these horses. Polish up or make some one
else polish my arms. Then take pistols with thee and a hunting-knife.”
“Are we then going to travel, my lord?” asked Mousqueton, rather
uneasy.
“Something better still, Mouston.”
“An expedition, sir?” asked the steward, whose roses began to change
into lilies.
“We are going to return to the service, Mouston,” replied Porthos,
still trying to restore his mustache to the military curl it had long
lost.
“Into the service—the king’s service?” Mousqueton trembled; even his
fat, smooth cheeks shook as he spoke, and he looked at D’Artagnan with
an air of reproach; he staggered, and his voice was almost choked.
“Yes and no. We shall serve in a campaign, seek out all sorts of
adventures—return, in short, to our former life.”
These last words fell on Mousqueton like a thunderbolt. It was those
very terrible old days that made the present so excessively delightful,
and the blow was so great he rushed out, overcome, and forgot to shut
the door.
The two friends remained alone to speak of the future and to build
castles in the air. The good wine which Mousqueton had placed before
them traced out in glowing drops to D’Artagnan a fine perspective,
shining with quadruples and pistoles, and showed to Porthos a blue
ribbon and a ducal mantle; they were, in fact, asleep on the table when
the servants came to light them to their bed.
Mousqueton was, however, somewhat consoled by D’Artagnan, who the next
day told him that in all probability war would always be carried on in
the heart of Paris and within reach of the Château du Vallon, which was
near Corbeil, or Bracieux, which was near Melun, and of Pierrefonds,
which was between Compiègne and Villars-Cotterets.
“But—formerly—it appears,” began Mousqueton timidly.
“Oh!” said D’Artagnan, “we don’t now make war as we did formerly.
To-day it’s a sort of diplomatic arrangement; ask Planchet.”
Mousqueton inquired, therefore, the state of the case of his old
friend, who confirmed the statement of D’Artagnan. “But,” he added, “in
this war prisoners stand a chance of being hung.”
“The deuce they do!” said Mousqueton; “I think I should like the siege
of Rochelle better than this war, then!”
Porthos, meantime, asked D’Artagnan to give him his instructions how to
proceed on his journey.
“Four days,” replied his friend, “are necessary to reach Blois; one day
to rest there; three or four days to return to Paris. Set out,
therefore, in a week, with your suite, and go to the Hotel de la
Chevrette, Rue Tiquetonne, and there await me.”
“That’s agreed,” said Porthos.
“As to myself, I shall go around to see Athos; for though I don’t think
his aid worth much, one must with one’s friends observe all due
politeness,” said D’Artagnan.
The friends then took leave of each other on the very border of the
estate of Pierrefonds, to which Porthos escorted his friend.
“At least,” D’Artagnan said to himself, as he took the road to
Villars-Cotterets, “at least I shall not be alone in my undertaking.
That devil, Porthos, is a man of prodigious strength; still, if Athos
joins us, well, we shall be three of us to laugh at Aramis, that little
coxcomb with his too good luck.”
At Villars-Cotterets he wrote to the cardinal:
“My Lord,—I have already one man to offer to your eminence, and he is
well worth twenty men. I am just setting out for Blois. The Comte de la
Fère inhabits the Castle of Bragelonne, in the environs of that city.”
Chapter XIII.
Two Angelic Faces.
The road was long, but the horses upon which D’Artagnan and Planchet
rode had been refreshed in the well supplied stables of the Lord of
Bracieux; the master and servant rode side by side, conversing as they
went, for D’Artagnan had by degrees thrown off the master and Planchet
had entirely ceased to assume the manners of a servant. He had been
raised by circumstances to the rank of a confidant to his master. It
was many years since D’Artagnan had opened his heart to any one; it
happened, however, that these two men, on meeting again, assimilated
perfectly. Planchet was in truth no vulgar companion in these new
adventures; he was a man of uncommonly sound sense. Without courting
danger he never shrank from an encounter; in short, he had been a
soldier and arms ennoble a man; it was, therefore, on the footing of
friends that D’Artagnan and Planchet arrived in the neighborhood of
Blois.
Going along, D’Artagnan, shaking his head, said:
“I know that my going to Athos is useless and absurd; but still I owe
this courtesy to my old friend, a man who had in him material for the
most noble and generous of characters.”
“Oh, Monsieur Athos was a noble gentleman,” said Planchet, “was he not?
Scattering money round about him as Heaven sprinkles rain. Do you
remember, sir, that duel with the Englishman in the inclosure des
Carmes? Ah! how lofty, how magnificent Monsieur Athos was that day,
when he said to his adversary: ‘You have insisted on knowing my name,
sir; so much the worse for you, since I shall be obliged to kill you.’
I was near him, those were his exact words, when he stabbed his foe as
he said he would, and his adversary fell without saying, ‘Oh!’ ’Tis a
noble gentleman—Monsieur Athos.”
“Yes, true as Gospel,” said D’Artagnan; “but one single fault has
swallowed up all these fine qualities.”
“I remember well,” said Planchet, “he was fond of drinking—in truth, he
drank, but not as other men drink. One seemed, as he raised the wine to
his lips, to hear him say, ‘Come, juice of the grape, and chase away my
sorrows.’ And how he used to break the stem of a glass or the neck of a
bottle! There was no one like him for that.”
“And now,” replied D’Artagnan, “behold the sad spectacle that awaits
us. This noble gentleman with his lofty glance, this handsome cavalier,
so brilliant in feats of arms that every one was surprised that he held
in his hand a sword only instead of a baton of command! Alas! we shall
find him changed into a broken down old man, with garnet nose and eyes
that slobber; we shall find him extended on some lawn, whence he will
look at us with a languid eye and peradventure will not recognize us.
God knows, Planchet, that I should fly from a sight so sad if I did not
wish to show my respect for the illustrious shadow of what was once the
Comte de la Fère, whom we loved so much.”
Planchet shook his head and said nothing. It was evident that he shared
his master’s apprehensions.
“And then,” resumed D’Artagnan, “to this decrepitude is probably added
poverty, for he must have neglected the little that he had, and the
dirty scoundrel, Grimaud, more taciturn than ever and still more
drunken than his master—stay, Planchet, it breaks my heart to merely
think of it.”
“I fancy myself there and that I see him staggering and hear him
stammering,” said Planchet, in a piteous tone, “but at all events we
shall soon know the real state of things, for I imagine that those
lofty walls, now turning ruby in the setting sun, are the walls of
Blois.”
“Probably; and those steeples, pointed and sculptured, that we catch a
glimpse of yonder, are similar to those that I have heard described at
Chambord.”
At this moment one of those heavy wagons, drawn by bullocks, which
carry the wood cut in the fine forests of the country to the ports of
the Loire, came out of a byroad full of ruts and turned on that which
the two horsemen were following. A man carrying a long switch with a
nail at the end of it, with which he urged on his slow team, was
walking with the cart.
“Ho! friend,” cried Planchet.
“What’s your pleasure, gentlemen?” replied the peasant, with a purity
of accent peculiar to the people of that district and which might have
put to shame the cultured denizens of the Sorbonne and the Rue de
l’Université.
“We are looking for the house of Monsieur de la Fère,” said D’Artagnan.
The peasant took off his hat on hearing this revered name.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “the wood that I am carting is his; I cut it in
his copse and I am taking it to the château.”
D’Artagnan determined not to question this man; he did not wish to hear
from another what he had himself said to Planchet.
“The château!” he said to himself, “what château? Ah, I understand!
Athos is not a man to be thwarted; he, like Porthos, has obliged his
peasantry to call him ‘my lord,’ and to dignify his pettifogging place
by the name of château. He had a heavy hand—dear old Athos—after
drinking.”
D’Artagnan, after asking the man the right way, continued his route,
agitated in spite of himself at the idea of seeing once more that
singular man whom he had so truly loved and who had contributed so much
by advice and example to his education as a gentleman. He checked by
degrees the speed of his horse and went on, his head drooping as if in
deep thought.
Soon, as the road turned, the Château de la Vallière appeared in view;
then, a quarter of a mile beyond, a white house, encircled in
sycamores, was visible at the farther end of a group of trees, which
spring had powdered with a snow of flowers.
On beholding this house, D’Artagnan, calm as he was in general, felt an
unusual disturbance within his heart—so powerful during the whole
course of life are the recollections of youth. He proceeded,
nevertheless, and came opposite to an iron gate, ornamented in the
taste of the period.
Through the gate was seen kitchen-gardens, carefully attended to, a
spacious courtyard, in which neighed several horses held by valets in
various liveries, and a carriage, drawn by two horses of the country.
“We are mistaken,” said D’Artagnan. “This cannot be the establishment
of Athos. Good heavens! suppose he is dead and that this property now
belongs to some one who bears his name. Alight, Planchet, and inquire,
for I confess that I have scarcely courage so to do.”
Planchet alighted.
“Thou must add,” said D’Artagnan, “that a gentleman who is passing by
wishes to have the honor of paying his respects to the Comte de la
Fère, and if thou art satisfied with what thou hearest, then mention my
name!”
Planchet, leading his horse by the bridle, drew near to the gate and
rang the bell, and immediately a servant-man with white hair and of
erect stature, notwithstanding his age, presented himself.
“Does Monsieur le Comte de la Fère live here?” asked Planchet.
“Yes, monsieur, it is here he lives,” the servant replied to Planchet,
who was not in livery.
“A nobleman retired from service, is he not?”
“Yes.”
“And who had a lackey named Grimaud?” persisted Planchet, who had
prudently considered that he couldn’t have too much information.
“Monsieur Grimaud is absent from the château for the time being,” said
the servitor, who, little used as he was to such inquiries, began to
examine Planchet from head to foot.
“Then,” cried Planchet joyously, “I see well that it is the same Comte
de la Fère whom we seek. Be good enough to open to me, for I wish to
announce to monsieur le comte that my master, one of his friends, is
here, and wishes to greet him.”
“Why didn’t you say so?” said the servitor, opening the gate. “But
where is your master?”
“He is following me.”
The servitor opened the gate and walked before Planchet, who made a
sign to D’Artagnan. The latter, his heart palpitating more than ever,
entered the courtyard without dismounting.
Whilst Planchet was standing on the steps before the house he heard a
voice say:
“Well, where is this gentleman and why do they not bring him here?”
This voice, the sound of which reached D’Artagnan, reawakened in his
heart a thousand sentiments, a thousand recollections that he had
forgotten. He vaulted hastily from his horse, whilst Planchet, with a
smile on his lips, advanced toward the master of the house.
“But I know you, my lad,” said Athos, appearing on the threshold.
“Oh, yes, monsieur le comte, you know me and I know you. I am
Planchet—Planchet, whom you know well.” But the honest servant could
say no more, so much was he overcome by this unexpected interview.
“What, Planchet, is Monsieur d’Artagnan here?”
“Here I am, my friend, dear Athos!” cried D’Artagnan, in a faltering
voice and almost staggering from agitation.
At these words a visible emotion was expressed on the beautiful
countenance and calm features of Athos. He rushed toward D’Artagnan
with eyes fixed upon him and clasped him in his arms. D’Artagnan,
equally moved, pressed him also closely to him, whilst tears stood in
his eyes. Athos then took him by the hand and led him into the
drawing-room, where there were several people. Every one arose.
“I present to you,” he said, “Monsieur le Chevalier D’Artagnan,
lieutenant of his majesty’s musketeers, a devoted friend and one of the
most excellent, brave gentlemen that I have ever known.”
D’Artagnan received the compliments of those who were present in his
own way, and whilst the conversation became general he looked earnestly
at Athos.
Strange! Athos was scarcely aged at all! His fine eyes, no longer
surrounded by that dark line which nights of dissipation pencil too
infallibly, seemed larger, more liquid than ever. His face, a little
elongated, had gained in calm dignity what it had lost in feverish
excitement. His hand, always wonderfully beautiful and strong, was set
off by a ruffle of lace, like certain hands by Titian and Vandyck. He
was less stiff than formerly. His long, dark hair, softly powdered here
and there with silver tendrils, fell elegantly over his shoulders in
wavy curls; his voice was still youthful, as if belonging to a Hercules
of twenty-five, and his magnificent teeth, which he had preserved white
and sound, gave an indescribable charm to his smile.
Meanwhile the guests, seeing that the two friends were longing to be
alone, prepared to depart, when a noise of dogs barking resounded
through the courtyard and many persons said at the same moment:
“Ah! ’tis Raoul, who is come home.”
Athos, as the name of Raoul was pronounced, looked inquisitively at
D’Artagnan, in order to see if any curiosity was painted on his face.
But D’Artagnan was still in confusion and turned around almost
mechanically when a fine young man of fifteen years of age, dressed
simply, but in perfect taste, entered the room, raising, as he came,
his hat, adorned with a long plume of scarlet feathers.
Nevertheless, D’Artagnan was struck by the appearance of this new
personage. It seemed to explain to him the change in Athos; a
resemblance between the boy and the man explained the mystery of this
regenerated existence. He remained listening and gazing.
“Here you are, home again, Raoul,” said the comte.
“Yes, sir,” replied the youth, with deep respect, “and I have performed
the commission that you gave me.”
“But what’s the matter, Raoul?” said Athos, very anxiously. “You are
pale and agitated.”
“Sir,” replied the young man, “it is on account of an accident which
has happened to our little neighbor.”
“To Mademoiselle de la Vallière?” asked Athos, quickly.
“What is it?” cried many persons present.
“She was walking with her nurse Marceline, in the place where the
woodmen cut the wood, when, passing on horseback, I stopped. She saw me
also and in trying to jump from the end of a pile of wood on which she
had mounted, the poor child fell and was not able to rise again. I fear
that she has badly sprained her ankle.”
“Oh, heavens!” cried Athos. “And her mother, Madame de Saint-Remy, have
they yet told her of it?”
“No, sir, Madame de Saint-Remy is at Blois with the Duchess of Orléans.
I am afraid that what was first done was unskillful, if not worse than
useless. I am come, sir, to ask your advice.”
“Send directly to Blois, Raoul; or, rather, take horse and ride
immediately yourself.”
Raoul bowed.
“But where is Louise?” asked the comte.
“I have brought her here, sir, and I have deposited her in charge of
Charlotte, who, till better advice comes, has bathed the foot in cold
well-water.”
The guests now all took leave of Athos, excepting the old Duc de Barbe,
who, as an old friend of the family of La Vallière, went to see little
Louise and offered to take her to Blois in his carriage.
“You are right, sir,” said Athos. “She will be the sooner with her
mother. As for you, Raoul, I am sure it is your fault, some giddiness
or folly.”
“No, sir, I assure you,” muttered Raoul, “it is not.”
“Oh, no, no, I declare it is not!” cried the young girl, while Raoul
turned pale at the idea of his being perhaps the cause of her disaster.
“Nevertheless, Raoul, you must go to Blois and you must make your
excuses and mine to Madame de Saint-Remy.”
The youth looked pleased. He again took in his strong arms the little
girl, whose pretty golden head and smiling face rested on his shoulder,
and placed her gently in the carriage; then jumping on his horse with
the elegance of a first-rate esquire, after bowing to Athos and
D’Artagnan, he went off close by the door of the carriage, on somebody
inside of which his eyes were riveted.
Chapter XIV.
The Castle of Bragelonne.
Whilst this scene was going on, D’Artagnan remained with open mouth and
a confused gaze. Everything had turned out so differently from what he
expected that he was stupefied with wonder.
Athos, who had been observing him and guessing his thoughts, took his
arm and led him into the garden.
“Whilst supper is being prepared,” he said, smiling, “you will not, my
friend, be sorry to have the mystery which so puzzles you cleared up.”
“True, monsieur le comte,” replied D’Artagnan, who felt that by degrees
Athos was resuming that great influence which aristocracy had over him.
Athos smiled.
“First and foremost, dear D’Artagnan, we have no title such as count
here. When I call you ‘chevalier,’ it is in presenting you to my
guests, that they may know who you are. But to you, D’Artagnan, I am, I
hope, still dear Athos, your comrade, your friend. Do you intend to
stand on ceremony because you are less attached to me than you were?”
“Oh! God forbid!”
“Then let us be as we used to be; let us be open with each other. You
are surprised at what you see here?”
“Extremely.”
“But above all things, I am a marvel to you?”
“I confess it.”
“I am still young, am I not? Should you not have known me again, in
spite of my eight-and-forty years of age?”
“On the contrary, I do not find you the same person at all.”
“I understand,” cried Athos, with a gentle blush. “Everything,
D’Artagnan, even folly, has its limit.”
“Then your means, it appears, are improved; you have a capital
house—your own, I presume? You have a park, and horses, servants.”
Athos smiled.
“Yes, I inherited this little property when I quitted the army, as I
told you. The park is twenty acres—twenty, comprising kitchen-gardens
and a common. I have two horses,—I do not count my servant’s bobtailed
nag. My sporting dogs consist of two pointers, two harriers and two
setters. But then all this extravagance is not for myself,” added
Athos, laughing.
“Yes, I see, for the young man Raoul,” said D’Artagnan.
“You guess aright, my friend; this youth is an orphan, deserted by his
mother, who left him in the house of a poor country priest. I have
brought him up. It is Raoul who has worked in me the change you see; I
was dried up like a miserable tree, isolated, attached to nothing on
earth; it was only a deep affection that could make me take root again
and drag me back to life. This child has caused me to recover what I
had lost. I had no longer any wish to live for myself, I have lived for
him. I have corrected the vices that I had; I have assumed the virtues
that I had not. Precept something, but example more. I may be mistaken,
but I believe that Raoul will be as accomplished a gentleman as our
degenerate age could display.”
The remembrance of Milady recurred to D’Artagnan.
“And you are happy?” he said to his friend.
“As happy as it is allowed to one of God’s creatures to be on this
earth; but say out all you think, D’Artagnan, for you have not yet done
so.”
“You are too bad, Athos; one can hide nothing from you,” answered
D’Artagnan. “I wished to ask you if you ever feel any emotions of
terror resembling——”
“Remorse! I finish your phrase. Yes and no. I do not feel remorse,
because that woman, I profoundly hold, deserved her punishment. Had she
one redeeming trait? I doubt it. I do not feel remorse, because had we
allowed her to live she would have persisted in her work of
destruction. But I do not mean, my friend that we were right in what we
did. Perhaps all blood demands _some_ expiation. Hers had been
accomplished; it remains, possibly, for us to accomplish ours.”
“I have sometimes thought as you do, Athos.”
“She had a son, that unhappy woman?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever heard of him?”
“Never.”
“He must be about twenty-three years of age,” said Athos, in a low
tone. “I often think of that young man, D’Artagnan.”
“Strange! for I had forgotten him,” said the lieutenant.
Athos smiled; the smile was melancholy.
“And Lord de Winter—do you know anything about him?”
“I know that he is in high favor with Charles I.”
“The fortunes of that monarch now are at low water. He shed the blood
of Strafford; that confirms what I said just now—blood will have blood.
And the queen?”
“What queen?”
“Madame Henrietta of England, daughter of Henry IV.”
“She is at the Louvre, as you know.”
“Yes, and I hear in bitter poverty. Her daughter, during the severest
cold, was obliged for want of fire to remain in bed. Do you grasp
that?” said Athos, shrugging his shoulders; “the daughter of Henry IV.
shivering for want of a fagot! Why did she not ask from any one of us a
home instead of from Mazarin? She should have wanted nothing.”
“Have you ever seen the queen of England?” inquired D’Artagnan.
“No; but my mother, as a child, saw her. Did I ever tell you that my
mother was lady of honor to Marie de Medici?”
“Never. You know, Athos, you never spoke much of such matters.”
“Ah, _mon Dieu_, yes, you are right,” Athos replied; “but then there
must be some occasion for speaking.”
“Porthos wouldn’t have waited for it so patiently,” said D’Artagnan,
with a smile.
“Every one according to his nature, my dear D’Artagnan. Porthos, in
spite of a touch of vanity, has many excellent qualities. Have you seen
him?”
“I left him five days ago,” said D’Artagnan, and he portrayed with
Gascon wit and sprightliness the magnificence of Porthos in his Château
of Pierrefonds; nor did he neglect to launch a few arrows of wit at the
excellent Monsieur Mouston.
“I sometimes wonder,” replied Athos, smiling at that gayety which
recalled the good old days, “that we could form an association of men
who would be, after twenty years of separation, still so closely bound
together. Friendship throws out deep roots in honest hearts,
D’Artagnan. Believe me, it is only the evil-minded who deny friendship;
they cannot understand it. And Aramis?”
“I have seen him also,” said D’Artagnan; “but he seemed to me cold.”
“Ah, you have seen Aramis?” said Athos, turning on D’Artagnan a
searching look. “Why, it is a veritable pilgrimage, my dear friend,
that you are making to the Temple of Friendship, as the poets would
say.”
“Why, yes,” replied D’Artagnan, with embarrassment.
“Aramis, you know,” continued Athos, “is naturally cold, and then he is
always involved in intrigues with women.”
“I believe he is at this moment in a very complicated one,” said
D’Artagnan.
Athos made no reply.
“He is not curious,” thought D’Artagnan.
Athos not only failed to reply, he even changed the subject of
conversation.
“You see,” said he, calling D’Artagnan’s attention to the fact that
they had come back to the château after an hour’s walk, “we have made a
tour of my domains.”
“All is charming and everything savors of nobility,” replied
D’Artagnan.
At this instant they heard the sound of horses’ feet.
“’Tis Raoul who has come back,” said Athos; “and we can now hear how
the poor child is.”
In fact, the young man appeared at the gate, covered with dust, entered
the courtyard, leaped from his horse, which he consigned to the charge
of a groom, and then went to greet the count and D’Artagnan.
“Monsieur,” said Athos, placing his hand on D’Artagnan’s shoulder,
“monsieur is the Chevalier D’Artagnan of whom you have often heard me
speak, Raoul.”
“Monsieur,” said the young man, saluting again and more profoundly,
“monsieur le comte has pronounced your name before me as an example
whenever he wished to speak of an intrepid and generous gentleman.”
That little compliment could not fail to move D’Artagnan. He extended a
hand to Raoul and said:
“My young friend, all the praises that are given me should be passed on
to the count here; for he has educated me in everything and it is not
his fault that his pupil profited so little from his instructions. But
he will make it up in you I am sure. I like your manner, Raoul, and
your politeness has touched me.”
Athos was more delighted than can be told. He looked at D’Artagnan with
an expression of gratitude and then bestowed on Raoul one of those
strange smiles, of which children are so proud when they receive them.
“Now,” said D’Artagnan to himself, noticing that silent play of
countenance, “I am sure of it.”
“I hope the accident has been of no consequence?”
“They don’t yet know, sir, on account of the swelling; but the doctor
is afraid some tendon has been injured.”
At this moment a little boy, half peasant, half foot-boy, came to
announce supper.
Athos led his guest into a dining-room of moderate size, the windows of
which opened on one side on a garden, on the other on a hot-house full
of magnificent flowers.
D’Artagnan glanced at the dinner service. The plate was magnificent,
old, and appertaining to the family. D’Artagnan stopped to look at a
sideboard on which was a superb ewer of silver.
“That workmanship is divine!” he exclaimed.