In which Aramis is sought and only Bazin is found
Two hours had scarcely elapsed since the departure of the master of the
house, who, in Blaisois’s sight, had taken the road to Paris, when a
horseman, mounted on a good pied horse, stopped before the gate, and
with a sonorous “hola!” called the stable-boys who, with the gardeners,
had formed a circle round Blaisois, the historian-in-ordinary to the
household of the chateau. This “hola,” doubtless well known to Master
Blaisois, made him turn his head and exclaim—“Monsieur d’Artagnan! run
quickly, you chaps, and open the gate.”
A swarm of eight brisk lads flew to the gate, which was opened as if it
had been made of feathers; and every one loaded him with attentions,
for they knew the welcome this friend was accustomed to receive from
their master; and for such remarks the eye of the valet may always be
depended upon.
“Ah!” said M. d’Artagnan, with an agreeable smile, balancing himself
upon his stirrup to jump to the ground, “where is that dear count?”
“Ah! how unfortunate you are, monsieur!” said Blaisois: “and how
unfortunate will monsieur le comte our master, think himself when he
hears of your coming! As ill luck will have it, monsieur le comte left
home two hours ago.”
D’Artagnan did not trouble himself about such trifles. “Very good!”
said he. “You always speak the best French in the world; you shall give
me a lesson in grammar and correct language, whilst I wait the return
of your master.”
“That is impossible, monsieur,” said Blaisois; “you would have to wait
too long.”
“Will he not come back to-day, then?”
“No, nor to-morrow, nor the day after to-morrow. Monsieur le comte has
gone on a journey.”
“A journey!” said D’Artagnan, surprised; “that’s a fable, Master
Blaisois.”
“Monsieur, it is no more than the truth. Monsieur has done me the honor
to give me the house in charge; and he added, with his voice so full of
authority and kindness—that is all one to me: ‘You will say I have gone
to Paris.’”
“Well!” cried D’Artagnan, “since he is gone towards Paris, that is all
I wanted to know! you should have told me so at first, booby! He is
then two hours in advance?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“I shall soon overtake him. Is he alone?”
“No, monsieur.”
“Who is with him, then?”
“A gentleman whom I don’t know, an old man, and M. Grimaud.”
“Such a party cannot travel as fast as I can—I will start.”
“Will monsieur listen to me an instant?” said Blaisois, laying his hand
gently on the reins of the horse.
“Yes, if you don’t favor me with fine speeches, and make haste.”
“Well, then, monsieur, that word Paris appears to me to be only an
excuse.”
“Oh, oh!” said D’Artagnan, seriously, “an excuse, eh?”
“Yes, monsieur; and monsieur le comte is not going to Paris, I will
swear.”
“What makes you think so?”
“This—M. Grimaud always knows where our master is going; and he had
promised me that the first time he went to Paris, he would take a
little money for me to my wife.”
“What, have you a wife, then?”
“I had one—she was of this country; but monsieur thought her a noisy
scold, and I sent her to Paris; it is sometimes inconvenient, but very
agreeable at others.”
“I understand; but go on. You do not believe the count gone to Paris?”
“No, monsieur; for then M. Grimaud would have broken his word; he would
have perjured himself, and that is impossible.”
“That is impossible,” repeated D’Artagnan, quite in a study, because he
was quite convinced. “Well, my brave Blaisois, many thanks to you.”
Blaisois bowed.
“Come, you know I am not curious—I have serious business with your
master. Could you not, by a little bit of a word—you who speak so
well—give me to understand—one syllable, only—I will guess the rest.”
“Upon my word, monsieur, I cannot. I am quite ignorant where monsieur
le comte is gone. As to listening at doors, that is contrary to my
nature; and besides it is forbidden here.”
“My dear fellow,” said D’Artagnan, “this is a very bad beginning for
me. Never mind, you know when monsieur le comte will return, at least?”
“As little, monsieur, as the place of his destination.”
“Come, Blaisois, come, search.”
“Monsieur doubts my sincerity? Ah, monsieur, that grieves me much.”
“The devil take his gilded tongue!” grumbled D’Artagnan. “A clown with
a word would be worth a dozen of him. Adieu!”
“Monsieur, I have the honor to present you my respects.”
“Cuistre!” said D’Artagnan to himself, “the fellow is unbearable.” He
gave another look up to the house, turned his horse’s head, and set off
like a man who has nothing either annoying or embarrassing in his mind.
When he was at the end of the wall, and out of sight,—“Well, now, I
wonder,” said he, breathing quickly, “whether Athos was at home. No;
all those idlers, standing with their arms crossed, would have been at
work if the eye of the master was near. Athos gone a journey?—that is
incomprehensible. Bah! it is all devilish mysterious! And then—no—he is
not the man I want. I want one of a cunning, patient mind. My business
is at Melun, in a certain presbytery I am acquainted with. Forty-five
leagues—four days and a half! Well, it is fine weather, and I am free.
Never mind the distance!”
And he put his horse into a trot, directing his course towards Paris.
On the fourth day he alighted at Melun as he had intended.
D’Artagnan was never in the habit of asking any one on the road for any
common information. For these sorts of details, unless in very serious
circumstances, he confided in his perspicacity, which was so seldom at
fault, in his experience of thirty years, and in a great habit of
reading the physiognomies of houses, as well as those of men. At Melun,
D’Artagnan immediately found the presbytery—a charming house, plastered
over red brick, with vines climbing along the gutters, and a cross, in
carved stone, surmounting the ridge of the roof. From the ground-floor
of this house came a noise, or rather a confusion of voices, like the
chirping of young birds when the brood is just hatched under the down.
One of these voices was spelling the alphabet distinctly. A voice,
thick, yet pleasant, at the same time scolded the talkers and corrected
the faults of the reader. D’Artagnan recognized that voice, and as the
window of the ground-floor was open, he leant down from his horse under
the branches and red fibers of the vine and cried “Bazin, my dear
Bazin! good-day to you.”
A short, fat man, with a flat face, a craniun ornamented with a crown
of gray hairs, cut short, in imitation of a tonsure, and covered with
an old black velvet cap, arose as soon as he heard D’Artagnan—we ought
not to say arose, but bounded up. In fact, Bazin bounded up, carrying
with him his little low chair, which the children tried to take away,
with battles more fierce than those of the Greeks endeavoring to
recover the body of Patroclus from the hands of the Trojans. Bazin did
more than bound; he let fall both his alphabet and his ferule. “You!”
said he, “you, Monsieur d’Artagnan?”
“Yes, myself! Where is Aramis—no, M. le Chevalier d’Herblay—no, I am
still mistaken—Monsieur le Vicaire-General?”
“Ah, monsieur,” said Bazin, with dignity, “monseigneur is at his
diocese.”
“What did you say?” said D’Artagnan. Bazin repeated the sentence.
“Ah, ah! but has Aramis a diocese?”
“Yes, monsieur. Why not?”
“Is he a bishop, then?”
“Why, where can you come from,” said Bazin, rather irreverently, “that
you don’t know that?”
“My dear Bazin, we pagans, we men of the sword, know very well when a
man is made a colonel, or maitre-de-camp, or marshal of France; but if
he be made a bishop, archbishop, or pope—devil take me if the news
reaches us before the three quarters of the earth have had the
advantage of it!”
“Hush! hush!” said Bazin, opening his eyes: “do not spoil these poor
children, in whom I am endeavoring to inculcate such good principles.”
In fact, the children had surrounded D’Artagnan, whose horse, long
sword, spurs, and martial air they very much admired. But above all,
they admired his strong voice; so that, when he uttered his oath, the
whole school cried out, “The devil take me!” with fearful bursts of
laughter, shouts, and bounds, which delighted the musketeer, and
bewildered the old pedagogue.
“There!” said he, “hold your tongues, you brats! You have come, M.
d’Artagnan, and all my good principles fly away. With you, as usual,
comes disorder. Babel is revived. Ah! Good Lord! Ah! the wild little
wretches!” And the worthy Bazin distributed right and left blows which
increased the cries of his scholars by changing the nature of them.
“At least,” said he, “you will no longer decoy any one here.”
“Do you think so?” said D’Artagnan, with a smile which made a shudder
creep over the shoulders of Bazin.
“He is capable of it,” murmured he.
“Where is your master’s diocese?”
“Monseigneur Rene is bishop of Vannes.”
“Who had him nominated?”
“Why, monsieur le surintendant, our neighbor.”
“What! Monsieur Fouquet?”
“To be sure he did.”
“Is Aramis on good terms with him, then?”
“Monseigneur preached every Sunday at the house of monsieur le
surintendant at Vaux; then they hunted together.”
“Ah!”
“And monseigneur composed his homilies—no, I mean his sermons—with
monsieur le surintendant.”
“Bah! he preached in verse, then, this worthy bishop?”
“Monsieur, for the love of heaven, do not jest with sacred things.”
“There, Bazin, there! So, then, Aramis is at Vannes?”
“At Vannes, in Bretagne.”
“You are a deceitful old hunks, Bazin; that is not true.”
“See, monsieur, if you please; the apartments of the presbytery are
empty.”
“He is right there,” said D’Artagnan, looking attentively at the house,
the aspect of which announced solitude.
“But monseigneur must have written you an account of his promotion.”
“When did it take place?”
“A month back.”
“Oh! then there is no time lost. Aramis cannot yet have wanted me. But
how is it, Bazin, you do not follow your master?”
“Monsieur, I cannot; I have occupations.”
“Your alphabet?”
“And my penitents.”
“What, do you confess, then? Are you a priest?”
“The same as one. I have such a call.”
“But the orders?”
“Oh,” said Bazin, without hesitation, “now that monseigneur is a
bishop, I shall soon have my orders, or at least my dispensations.” And
he rubbed his hands.
“Decidedly,” said D’Artagnan to himself, “there will be no means of
uprooting these people. Get me some supper Bazin.”
“With pleasure, monsieur.”
“A fowl, a bouillon, and a bottle of wine.”
“This is Saturday, monsieur—it is a day of abstinence.”
“I have a dispensation,” said D’Artagnan.
Bazin looked at him suspiciously.
“Ah, ah, master hypocrite!” said the musketeer, “for whom do you take
me? If you, who are the valet, hope for dispensation to commit a crime,
shall not I, the friend of your bishop, have dispensation for eating
meat at the call of my stomach? Make yourself agreeable with me, Bazin,
or, by heavens! I will complain to the king, and you shall never
confess. Now you know that the nomination of bishops rests with the
king—I have the king, I am the stronger.”
Bazin smiled hypocritically. “Ah, but we have monsieur le
surintendant,” said he.
“And you laugh at the king, then?”
Bazin made no reply; his smile was sufficiently eloquent.
“My supper,” said D’Artagnan, “it is getting towards seven o’clock.”
Bazin turned round and ordered the eldest of the pupils to inform the
cook. In the meantime, D’Artagnan surveyed the presbytery.
“Phew!” said he, disdainfully, “monseigneur lodged his grandeur very
meanly here.”
“We have the Chateau de Vaux,” said Bazin.
“Which is perhaps equal to the Louvre?” said D’Artagnan, jeeringly.
“Which is better,” replied Bazin, with the greatest coolness
imaginable.
“Ah, ah!” said D’Artagnan.
He would perhaps have prolonged the discussion, and maintained the
superiority of the Louvre, but the lieutenant perceived that his horse
remained fastened to the bars of a gate.
“The devil!” said he. “Get my horse looked after; your master the
bishop has none like him in his stables.”
Bazin cast a sidelong glance at the horse, and replied, “Monsieur le
surintendant gave him four from his own stables; and each of the four
is worth four of yours.”
The blood mounted to the face of D’Artagnan. His hand itched and his
eye glanced over the head of Bazin, to select the place upon which he
should discharge his anger. But it passed away; reflection came, and
D’Artagnan contented himself with saying,—
“The devil! the devil! I have done well to quit the service of the
king. Tell me, worthy Master Bazin,” added he, “how many musketeers
does monsieur le surintendant retain in his service?”
“He could have all there are in the kingdom with his money,” replied
Bazin, closing his book, and dismissing the boys with some kindly blows
of his cane.
“The devil! the devil!” repeated D’Artagnan, once more, as if to annoy
the pedagogue. But as supper was now announced, he followed the cook,
who introduced him into the refectory, where it awaited him. D’Artagnan
placed himself at the table, and began a hearty attack upon his fowl.
“It appears to me,” said D’Artagnan, biting with all his might at the
tough fowl they had served up to him, and which they had evidently
forgotten to fatten,—“it appears that I have done wrong in not seeking
service with that master yonder. A powerful noble this intendant,
seemingly! In good truth, we poor fellows know nothing at the court,
and the rays of the sun prevent our seeing the large stars, which are
also suns, at a little greater distance from our earth,—that is all.”
As D’Artagnan delighted, both from pleasure and system, in making
people talk about things which interested him, he fenced in his best
style with Master Bazin, but it was pure loss of time; beyond the
tiresome and hyperbolical praises of monsieur le surintendant of the
finances, Bazin, who, on his side, was on his guard, afforded nothing
but platitudes to the curiosity of D’Artagnan, so that our musketeer,
in a tolerably bad humor, desired to go to bed as soon as he had
supped. D’Artagnan was introduced by Bazin into a mean chamber, in
which there was a poor bed; but D’Artagnan was not fastidious in that
respect. He had been told that Aramis had taken away the key of his own
private apartment, and as he knew Aramis was a very particular man, and
had generally many things to conceal in his apartment, he had not been
surprised. He, therefore, although it appeared comparatively even
harder, attacked the bed as bravely as he had done the fowl; and, as he
had as good an inclination to sleep as he had had to eat, he took
scarcely longer time to be snoring harmoniously than he had employed in
picking the last bones of the bird.
Since he was no longer in the service of any one, D’Artagnan had
promised himself to indulge in sleeping as soundly as he had formerly
slept lightly; but with whatever good faith D’Artagnan had made himself
this promise, and whatever desire he might have to keep it religiously,
he was awakened in the middle of the night by a loud noise of
carriages, and servants on horseback. A sudden illumination flashed
over the walls of his chamber; he jumped out of bed and ran to the
window in his shirt. “Can the king be coming this way?” he thought,
rubbing his eyes; “in truth, such a suite can only be attached to
royalty.”
“Vive monsieur le surintendant!” cried, or rather vociferated, from a
window on the ground-floor, a voice which he recognized as Bazin’s, who
at the same time waved a handkerchief with one hand, and held a large
candle in the other. D’Artagnan then saw something like a brilliant
human form leaning out of the principal carriage; at the same time loud
bursts of laughter, caused, no doubt, by the strange figure of Bazin,
and issuing from the same carriage, left, as it were, a train of joy
upon the passage of the rapid cortege.
“I might easily see it was not the king,” said D’Artagnan; “people
don’t laugh so heartily when the king passes. Hola, Bazin!” cried he to
his neighbor, three-quarters of whose body still hung out of the
window, to follow the carriage with his eyes as long as he could. “What
is all that about?”
“It is M. Fouquet,” said Bazin, in a patronizing tone.
“And all those people?”
“That is the court of M. Fouquet.”
“Oh, oh!” said D’Artagnan; “what would M. de Mazarin say to that if he
heard it?” And he returned to his bed, asking himself how Aramis always
contrived to be protected by the most powerful personages in the
kingdom. “Is it that he has more luck than I, or that I am a greater
fool than he? Bah!” that was the concluding word by the aid of which
D’Artagnan, having become wise, now terminated every thought and every
period of his style. Formerly he said, “Mordioux!” which was a prick of
the spur, but now he had become older, and he murmured that
philosophical “Bah!” which served as a bridle to all the passions.