In which D’Artagnan seeks Porthos, and only finds Mousqueton
When D’Artagnan had perfectly convinced himself that the absence of the
Vicar-General d’Herblay was real, and that his friend was not to be
found at Melun or in its vicinity, he left Bazin without regret, cast
an ill-natured glance at the magnificent Chateau de Vaux which was
beginning to shine with that splendor which brought on its ruin, and,
compressing his lips like a man full of mistrust and suspicion, he put
spurs to his pied horse, saying, “Well, well! I have still Pierrefonds
left, and there I shall find the best man and the best filled coffer.
And that is all I want, for I have an idea of my own.”
We will spare our readers the prosaic incidents of D’Artagnan’s
journey, which terminated on the morning of the third day within sight
of Pierrefonds. D’Artagnan came by the way of Nanteuil-le-Hardouin and
Crepy. At a distance he perceived the Castle of Louis of Orleans,
which, having become part of the crown domain, was kept by an old
concierge. This was one of those marvelous manors of the middle ages,
with walls twenty feet in thickness, and a hundred in height.
D’Artagnan rode slowly past its walls, measured its towers with his eye
and descended into the valley. From afar he looked down upon the
chateau of Porthos, situated on the shores of a small lake, and
contiguous to a magnificent forest. It was the same place we have
already had the honor of describing to our readers; we shall therefore
satisfy ourselves with naming it. The first thing D’Artagnan perceived
after the fine trees, the May sun gilding the sides of the green hills,
the long rows of feather-topped trees which stretched out towards
Compiegne, was a large rolling box, pushed forward by two servants and
dragged by two others. In this box there was an enormous green-and-gold
thing, which went along the smiling glades of the park, thus dragged
and pushed. This thing, at a distance, could not be distinguished, and
signified absolutely nothing; nearer, it was a hogshead muffled in
gold-bound green cloth; when close, it was a man, or rather a poussa,
the interior extremity of whom, spreading over the interior of the box,
entirely filled it, when still closer, the man was
Mousqueton—Mousqueton, with gray hair and a face as red as
Punchinello’s.
“Pardieu!” cried D’Artagnan; “why, that’s my dear Monsieur Mousqueton!”
“Ah!” cried the fat man—“ah! what happiness! what joy! There’s M.
d’Artagnan. Stop, you rascals!” These last words were addressed to the
lackeys who pushed and dragged him. The box stopped, and the four
lackeys, with a precision quite military, took off their laced hats and
ranged themselves behind it.
“Oh, Monsieur d’Artagnan!” said Mousqueton, “why can I not embrace your
knees? But I have become impotent, as you see.”
“Dame! my dear Mousqueton, it is age.”
“No, monsieur, it is not age; it is infirmities—troubles.”
“Troubles! you, Mousqueton?” said D’Artagnan making the tour of the
box; “are you out of your mind, my dear friend? Thank God! you are as
hearty as a three-hundred-year-old oak.”
“Ah! but my legs, monsieur, my legs!” groaned the faithful servant.
“What’s the matter with your legs?”
“Oh, they will no longer bear me!”
“Ah, the ungrateful things! And yet you feed them well, Mousqueton,
apparently.”
“Alas, yes! They can reproach me with nothing in that respect,” said
Mousqueton, with a sigh; “I have always done what I could for my poor
body; I am not selfish.” And Mousqueton sighed afresh.
“I wonder whether Mousqueton wants to be a baron, too, as he sighs
after that fashion?” thought D’Artagnan.
“Mon Dieu, monsieur!” said Mousqueton, as if rousing himself from a
painful reverie; “how happy monseigneur will be that you have thought
of him!”
“Kind Porthos!” cried D’Artagnan, “I am anxious to embrace him.”
“Oh!” said Mousqueton, much affected, “I shall certainly write to him.”
“What!” cried D’Artagnan, “you will write to him?”
“This very day; I shall not delay it an hour.”
“Is he not here, then?”
“No, monsieur.”
“But is he near at hand?—is he far off?”
“Oh, can I tell, monsieur, can I tell?”
“Mordioux!” cried the musketeer, stamping with his foot, “I am
unfortunate. Porthos such a stay-at-home!”
“Monsieur, there is not a more sedentary man than monseigneur, but——”
“But what?”
“When a friend presses you——”
“A friend?”
“Doubtless—the worthy M. d’Herblay.”
“What, has Aramis pressed Porthos?”
“This is how the thing happened, Monsieur d’Artagnan. M. d’Herblay
wrote to monseigneur——”
“Indeed!”
“A letter, monsieur, such a pressing letter that it threw us all into a
bustle.”
“Tell me all about it, my dear friend.” said D’Artagnan; “but remove
these people a little further off first.”
Mousqueton shouted, “Fall back, you fellows,” with such powerful lungs
that the breath, without the words, would have been sufficient to
disperse the four lackeys. D’Artagnan seated himself on the shaft of
the box and opened his ears. “Monsieur,” said Mousqueton, “monseigneur,
then, received a letter from M. le Vicaire-General d’Herblay, eight or
nine days ago; it was the day of the rustic pleasures, yes, it must
have been Wednesday.”
“What do you mean?” said D’Artagnan. “The day of rustic pleasures?”
“Yes, monsieur; we have so many pleasures to take in this delightful
country, that we were encumbered by them; so much so, that we have been
forced to regulate the distribution of them.”
“How easily do I recognize Porthos’s love of order in that! Now, that
idea would never have occurred to me; but then I am not encumbered with
pleasures.”
“We were, though,” said Mousqueton.
“And how did you regulate the matter, let me know?” said D’Artagnan.
“It is rather long, monsieur.”
“Never mind, we have plenty of time; and you speak so well, my dear
Mousqueton, that it is really a pleasure to hear you.”
“It is true,” said Mousqueton, with a sigh of satisfaction, which
emanated evidently from the justice which had been rendered him, “it is
true I have made great progress in the company of monseigneur.”
“I am waiting for the distribution of the pleasures, Mousqueton, and
with impatience. I want to know if I have arrived on a lucky day.”
“Oh, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said Mousqueton in a melancholy tone, “since
monseigneur’s departure all the pleasures have gone too!”
“Well, my dear Mousqueton, refresh your memory.”
“With what day shall I begin?”
“Eh, pardieux! begin with Sunday; that is the Lord’s day.”
“Sunday, monsieur?”
“Yes.”
“Sunday pleasures are religious: monseigneur goes to mass, makes the
bread-offering, and has discourses and instructions made to him by his
almoner-in-ordinary. That is not very amusing, but we expect a
Carmelite from Paris who will do the duty of our almonry, and who, we
are assured, speaks very well, which will keep us awake, whereas our
present almoner always sends us to sleep. These are Sunday religious
pleasures. On Monday, worldly pleasures.”
“Ah, ah!” said D’Artagnan, “what do you mean by that? Let us have a
glimpse at your worldly pleasures.”
“Monsieur, on Monday we go into the world; we pay and receive visits,
we play on the lute, we dance, we make verses, and burn a little
incense in honor of the ladies.”
“Peste! that is the height of gallantry,” said the musketeer, who was
obliged to call to his aid all the strength of his facial muscles to
suppress an enormous inclination to laugh.
“Tuesday, learned pleasures.”
“Good!” cried D’Artagnan. “What are they? Detail them, my dear
Mousqueton.”
“Monseigneur has bought a sphere or globe, which I shall show you; it
fills all the perimeter of the great tower, except a gallery which he
has had built over the sphere: there are little strings and brass wires
to which the sun and moon are hooked. It all turns; and that is very
beautiful. Monseigneur points out to me seas and distant countries. We
don’t intend to visit them, but it is very interesting.”
“Interesting! yes, that’s the word,” repeated D’Artagnan. “And
Wednesday?”
“Rustic pleasures, as I have had the honor to tell you, monsieur le
chevalier. We look over monseigneur’s sheep and goats; we make the
shepherds dance to pipes and reeds, as is written in a book monseigneur
has in his library, which is called ‘Bergeries.’ The author died about
a month ago.”
“Monsieur Racan, perhaps,” said D’Artagnan.
“Yes, that was his name—M. Racan. But that is not all: we angle in the
little canal, after which we dine, crowned with flowers. That is
Wednesday.”
“Peste!” said D’Artagnan, “you don’t divide your pleasures badly. And
Thursday?—what can be left for poor Thursday?”
“It is not very unfortunate, monsieur,” said Mousqueton, smiling.
“Thursday, Olympian pleasures. Ah, monsieur, that is superb! We get
together all monseigneur’s young vassals, and we make them throw the
disc, wrestle, and run races. Monseigneur can’t run now, no more can I;
but monseigneur throws the disc as nobody else can throw it. And when
he does deal a blow, oh, that proves a misfortune!”
“How so?”
“Yes, monsieur, we were obliged to renounce the cestus. He cracked
heads; he broke jaws—beat in ribs. It was charming sport; but nobody
was willing to play with him.”
“Then his wrist——”
“Oh, monsieur, firmer than ever. Monseigneur gets a trifle weaker in
his legs,—he confesses that himself; but his strength has all taken
refuge in his arms, so that——”
“So that he can knock down bullocks, as he used formerly.”
“Monsieur, better than that—he beats in walls. Lately, after having
supped with one of our farmers—you know how popular and kind
monseigneur is—after supper as a joke, he struck the wall a blow. The
wall crumbled away beneath his hand, the roof fell in, and three men
and an old woman were stifled.”
“Good God, Mousqueton! And your master?”
“Oh, monseigneur, a little skin was rubbed off his head. We bathed the
wounds with some water which the monks gave us. But there was nothing
the matter with his hand.”
“Nothing?”
“No, nothing, monsieur.”
“Deuce take the Olympic pleasures! They must cost your master too dear,
for widows and orphans——”
“They all had pensions, monsieur; a tenth of monseigneur’s revenue was
spent in that way.”
“Then pass on to Friday,” said D’Artagnan.
“Friday, noble and warlike pleasures. We hunt, we fence, we dress
falcons and break horses. Then, Saturday is the day for intellectual
pleasures: we adorn our minds; we look at monseigneur’s pictures and
statues; we write, even, and trace plans: and then we fire
monseigneur’s cannon.”
“You draw plans, and fire cannon?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Why, my friend,” said D’Artagnan, “M. du Vallon, in truth, possesses
the most subtle and amiable mind that I know. But there is one kind of
pleasure you have forgotten, it appears to me.”
“What is that, monsieur?” asked Mousqueton, with anxiety.
“The material pleasures.”
Mousqueton colored. “What do you mean by that, monsieur?” said he,
casting down his eyes.
“I mean the table—good wine—evenings occupied in passing the bottle.”
“Ah, monsieur, we don’t reckon those pleasures,—we practice them every
day.”
“My brave Mousqueton,” resumed D’Artagnan, “pardon me, but I was so
absorbed in your charming recital that I have forgotten the principal
object of our conversation, which was to learn what M. le
Vicaire-General d’Herblay could have to write to your master about.”
“That is true, monsieur,” said Mousqueton; “the pleasures have misled
us. Well, monsieur, this is the whole affair.”
“I am all attention, Mousqueton.”
“On Wednesday——”
“The day of the rustic pleasures?”
“Yes—a letter arrived; he received it from my hands. I had recognized
the writing.”
“Well?”
“Monseigneur read it and cried out, ‘Quick, my horses! my arms!’”
“Oh, good Lord! then it was for some duel?” said D’Artagnan.
“No, monsieur, there were only these words: ‘Dear Porthos, set out, if
you would wish to arrive before the Equinox. I expect you.’”
“Mordioux!” said D’Artagnan, thoughtfully, “that was pressing,
apparently.”
“I think so; therefore,” continued Mousqueton, “monseigneur set out the
very same day with his secretary, in order to endeavor to arrive in
time.”
“And did he arrive in time?”
“I hope so. Monseigneur, who is hasty, as you know, monsieur, repeated
incessantly, ‘Tonno Dieu! What can this mean? The Equinox? Never mind,
a fellow must be well mounted to arrive before I do.’”
“And you think Porthos will have arrived first, do you?” asked
D’Artagnan.
“I am sure of it. This Equinox, however rich he may be, has certainly
no horses so good as monseigneur’s.”
D’Artagnan repressed his inclination to laugh, because the brevity of
Aramis’s letter gave rise to reflection. He followed Mousqueton, or
rather Mousqueton’s chariot, to the castle. He sat down to a sumptuous
table, of which they did him the honors as to a king. But he could draw
nothing from Mousqueton,—the faithful servant seemed to shed tears at
will, but that was all.
D’Artagnan, after a night passed in an excellent bed, reflected much
upon the meaning of Aramis’s letter; puzzled himself as to the relation
of the Equinox with the affairs of Porthos; and being unable to make
anything out unless it concerned some amour of the bishopp’s, for which
it was necessary that the days and nights should be equal, D’Artagnan
left Pierrefonds as he had left Melun, as he had left the chateau of
the Comte de la Fere. It was not, however, without a melancholy, which
might in good sooth pass for one of the most dismal of D’Artagnan’s
moods. His head cast down, his eyes fixed, he suffered his legs to hang
on each side of his horse, and said to himself, in that vague sort of
reverie which ascends sometimes to the sublimest eloquence:
“No more friends! no more future! no more anything! My energies are
broken like the bonds of our ancient friendship. Oh, old age is coming,
cold and inexorable; it envelops in its funereal crape all that was
brilliant, all that was embalming in my youth; then it throws that
sweet burthen on its shoulders and carries it away with the rest into
the fathomless gulf of death.”
A shudder crept through the heart of the Gascon, so brave and so strong
against all the misfortunes of life; and during some moments the clouds
appeared black to him, the earth slippery and full of pits as that of
cemeteries.
“Whither am I going?” said he to himself. “What am I going to do!
Alone, quite alone—without family, without friends! Bah!” cried he all
at once. And he clapped spurs to his horse, who, having found nothing
melancholy in the heavy oats of Pierrefonds profited by this permission
to show his gayety in a gallop which absorbed two leagues. “To Paris!”
said D’Artagnan to himself. And on the morrow he alighted in Paris. He
had devoted six days to this journey.