Louise de la Vallière
by Alexandre Dumas, Père
Transcriber’s Notes:
As you may be aware, Project Gutenberg has been involved with the
writings of both the Alexandre Dumases for some time now, and since we
get a few questions about the order in which the books should be read,
and in which they were published, these following comments should
hopefully help most of our readers.
***
The Vicomte de Bragelonne is the final volume of D’Artagnan Romances:
it is usually split into three or four parts, and the final portion
is entitled The Man in the Iron Mask. The Man in the Iron Mask we’re
familiar with today is the last volume of the four-volume edition.
[Not all the editions split them in the same manner, hence some of the
confusion...but wait...there’s yet more reason for confusion.]
We intend to do ALL of The Vicomte de Bragelonne, split into four
etexts entitled The Vicomte de Bragelonne, Ten Years Later, Louise de la
Vallière, and The Man in the Iron Mask; you WILL be getting The Man in
the Iron Mask.
One thing that may be causing confusion is that the etext we have now,
entitled Ten Years Later, says it’s the sequel to The Three Musketeers.
While this is technically true, there’s another book, Twenty Years
After, that comes between. The confusion is generated by the two facts
that we published Ten Years Later BEFORE we published Twenty Years
After, and that many people see those titles as meaning Ten and Twenty
Years “After” the original story...however, this is why the different
words “After” and “Later”...the Ten Years “After” is ten years after
the Twenty Years later.. .as per history. Also, the third book of the
D’Artagnan Romances, while entitled The Vicomte de Bragelonne, has the
subtitle Ten Years Later. These two titles are also given to different
volumes: The Vicomte de Bragelonne can refer to the whole book, or the
first volume of the three or four-volume editions. Ten Years Later
can, similarly, refer to the whole book, or the second volume of the
four-volume edition. To add to the confusion, in the case of our etexts,
it refers to the first 104 chapters of the whole book, covering material
in the first and second etexts in the new series. Here is a guide to the
series which may prove helpful:
The Three Musketeers: Etext 1257--First book of the D’Artagnan Romances.
Covers the years 1625-1628.
Twenty Years After: Etext 1259--Second book of the D’Artagnan Romances.
Covers the years 1648-1649. [Third in the order that we published, but
second in time sequence!!!]
Ten Years Later: Etext 1258--First 104 chapters of the third book of the
D’Artagnan Romances. Covers the years 1660-1661.
The Vicomte de Bragelonne: Etext 2609 (first in the new series)--First
75 chapters of the third book of the D’Artagnan Romances. Covers the
year 1660.
Ten Years Later: Etext 2681 (second in the new series)--Chapters
76-140 of that third book of the D’Artagnan Romances. Covers the years
1660-1661. [In this particular editing of it]
Louise de la Vallière: Etext 2710 (our new text)--Chapters 141-208 of
the third book of the D’Artagnan Romances. Covers the year 1661.
The Man in the Iron Mask: forthcoming (our next text)--Chapters
209-269 of the third book of the D’Artagnan Romances. Covers the years
1661-1673.
If we’ve calculated correctly, that fourth text SHOULD correspond to
the modern editions of The Man in the Iron Mask, which is still
widely circulated, and comprises about the last 1/4 of The Vicomte de
Bragelonne.
Many thanks to Dr. David Coward, whose editions of the D’Artagnan
Romances have proved an invaluable source of information.
Introduction: In the months of March-July in 1844, in the magazine Le
Siecle, the first portion of a story appeared, penned by the celebrated
playwright Alexandre Dumas. It was based, he claimed, on some
manuscripts he had found a year earlier in the Bibliotheque Nationale
while researching a history he planned to write on Louis XIV. They
chronicled the adventures of a young man named D’Artagnan who, upon
entering Paris, became almost immediately embroiled in court intrigues,
international politics, and ill-fated affairs between royal lovers. Over
the next six years, readers would enjoy the adventures of this youth and
his three famous friends, Porthos, Athos, and Aramis, as their exploits
unraveled behind the scenes of some of the most momentous events in
French and even English history.
Eventually these serialized adventures were published in novel form,
and became the three D’Artagnan Romances known today. Here is a brief
summary of the first two novels:
The Three Musketeers (serialized March--July, 1844): The year is 1625.
The young D’Artagnan arrives in Paris at the tender age of 18, and
almost immediately offends three musketeers, Porthos, Aramis, and Athos.
Instead of dueling, the four are attacked by five of the Cardinal’s
guards, and the courage of the youth is made apparent during the battle.
The four become fast friends, and, when asked by D’Artagnan’s landlord
to find his missing wife, embark upon an adventure that takes them
across both France and England in order to thwart the plans of the
Cardinal Richelieu. Along the way, they encounter a beautiful young spy,
named simply Milady, who will stop at nothing to disgrace Queen Anne of
Austria before her husband, Louis XIII, and take her revenge upon the
four friends.
Twenty Years After (serialized January--August, 1845): The year is now
1648, twenty years since the close of the last story. Louis XIII has
died, as has Cardinal Richelieu, and while the crown of France may sit
upon the head of Anne of Austria as Regent for the young Louis XIV,
the real power resides with the Cardinal Mazarin, her secret husband.
D’Artagnan is now a lieutenant of musketeers, and his three friends have
retired to private life. Athos turned out to be a nobleman, the Comte de
la Fere, and has retired to his home with his son, Raoul de Bragelonne.
Aramis, whose real name is D’Herblay, has followed his intention of
shedding the musketeer’s cassock for the priest’s robes, and Porthos has
married a wealthy woman, who left him her fortune upon her death. But
trouble is stirring in both France and England. Cromwell menaces the
institution of royalty itself while marching against Charles I, and at
home the Fronde is threatening to tear France apart. D’Artagnan brings
his friends out of retirement to save the threatened English monarch,
but Mordaunt, the son of Milady, who seeks to avenge his mother’s death
at the musketeers’ hands, thwarts their valiant efforts. Undaunted, our
heroes return to France just in time to help save the young Louis XIV,
quiet the Fronde, and tweak the nose of Cardinal Mazarin.
The third novel, The Vicomte de Bragelonne (serialized October,
1847--January, 1850), has enjoyed a strange history in its English
translation. It has been split into three, four, or five volumes at
various points in its history. The five-volume edition generally does
not give titles to the smaller portions, but the others do. In the
three-volume edition, the novels are entitled The Vicomte de Bragelonne,
Louise de la Vallière, and The Man in the Iron Mask. For the purposes of
this etext, I have chosen to split the novel as the four-volume edition
does, with these titles: The Vicomte de Bragelonne, Ten Years Later,
Louise de la Vallière, and The Man in the Iron Mask. In the first two
etexts:
The Vicomte de Bragelonne (Etext 2609): It is the year 1660, and
D’Artagnan, after thirty-five years of loyal service, has become
disgusted with serving King Louis XIV while the real power resides with
the Cardinal Mazarin, and has tendered his resignation. He embarks on
his own project, that of restoring Charles II to the throne of England,
and, with the help of Athos, succeeds, earning himself quite a fortune
in the process. D’Artagnan returns to Paris to live the life of a rich
citizen, and Athos, after negotiating the marriage of Philip, the king’s
brother, to Princess Henrietta of England, likewise retires to his own
estate, La Fere. Meanwhile, Mazarin has finally died, and left Louis to
assume the reigns of power, with the assistance of M. Colbert, formerly
Mazarin’s trusted clerk. Colbert has an intense hatred for M. Fouquet,
the king’s superintendent of finances, and has resolved to use any
means necessary to bring about his fall. With the new rank of intendant
bestowed on him by Louis, Colbert succeeds in having two of Fouquet’s
loyal friends tried and executed. He then brings to the king’s attention
that Fouquet is fortifying the island of Belle-Ile-en-Mer, and could
possibly be planning to use it as a base for some military operation
against the king. Louis calls D’Artagnan out of retirement and sends
him to investigate the island, promising him a tremendous salary and his
long-promised promotion to captain of the musketeers upon his return. At
Belle-Isle, D’Artagnan discovers that the engineer of the fortifications
is, in fact, Porthos, now the Baron du Vallon, and that’s not all.
The blueprints for the island, although in Porthos’s handwriting,
show evidence of another script that has been erased, that of Aramis.
D’Artagnan later discovers that Aramis has become the bishop of Vannes,
which is, coincidentally, a parish belonging to M. Fouquet. Suspecting
that D’Artagnan has arrived on the king’s behalf to investigate, Aramis
tricks D’Artagnan into wandering around Vannes in search of Porthos,
and sends Porthos on an heroic ride back to Paris to warn Fouquet of
the danger. Fouquet rushes to the king, and gives him Belle-Isle as a
present, thus allaying any suspicion, and at the same time humiliating
Colbert, just minutes before the usher announces someone else seeking an
audience with the king.
Ten Years Later (Etext 2681): As 1661 approaches, Princess Henrietta of
England arrives for her marriage, and throws the court of France into
complete disorder. The jealousy of the Duke of Buckingham, who is
in love with her, nearly occasions a war on the streets of Le Havre,
thankfully prevented by Raoul’s timely and tactful intervention. After
the marriage, though, Monsieur Philip becomes horribly jealous of
Buckingham, and has him exiled. Before leaving, however, the duke
fights a duel with M. de Wardes at Calais. De Wardes is a malicious and
spiteful man, the sworn enemy of D’Artagnan, and, by the same token,
that of Athos, Aramis, Porthos, and Raoul as well. Both men are
seriously wounded, and the duke is taken back to England to recover.
Raoul’s friend, the Comte de Guiche, is the next to succumb to
Henrietta’s charms, and Monsieur obtains his exile as well, though De
Guiche soon effects a reconciliation. But then the king’s eye falls on
Madame Henrietta during the comte’s absence, and this time Monsieur’s
jealousy has no recourse. Anne of Austria intervenes, and the king and
his sister-in-law decide to pick a young lady with whom the king
can pretend to be in love, the better to mask their own affair. They
unfortunately select Louise de la Vallière, Raoul’s fiancee. While the
court is in residence at Fontainebleau, the king unwitting overhears
Louise confessing her love for him while chatting with her friends
beneath the royal oak, and the king promptly forgets his affection for
Madame. That same night, Henrietta overhears, at the same oak, De
Guiche confessing his love for her to Raoul. The two embark on their
own affair. A few days later, during a rainstorm, Louis and Louise
are trapped alone together, and the whole court begins to talk of the
scandal while their love affair blossoms. Aware of Louise’s attachment,
the king arranges for Raoul to be sent to England for an indefinite
period.
Meanwhile, the struggle for power continues between Fouquet and Colbert.
Although the Belle-Isle plot backfired, Colbert prompts the king to ask
Fouquet for more and more money, and without his two friends to raise it
for him, Fouquet is sorely pressed. The situation gets so bad that his
new mistress, Madame de Belliere, must resort to selling all her jewels
and her gold and silver plate. Aramis, while this is going on, has grown
friendly with the governor of the Bastile, M. de Baisemeaux, a fact that
Baisemeaux unwittingly reveals to D’Artagnan while inquiring of him
as to Aramis’s whereabouts. This further arouses the suspicions of the
musketeer, who was made to look ridiculous by Aramis. He had ridden
overnight at an insane pace, but arrived a few minutes after Fouquet
had already presented Belle-Isle to the king. Aramis learns from the
governor the location of a mysterious prisoner, who bears a remarkable
resemblance to Louis XIV--in fact, the two are identical. He uses
the existence of this secret to persuade a dying Franciscan monk, the
general of the society of the Jesuits, to name him, Aramis, the new
general of the order. On Aramis’s advice, hoping to use Louise’s
influence with the king to counteract Colbert’s influence, Fouquet also
writes a love letter to La Vallière, unfortunately undated. It never
reaches its destination, however, as the servant ordered to deliver it
turns out to be an agent of Colbert’s.
Porthos, in the meantime, has been recovering from his midnight ride
from Belle-Isle at Fouquet’s residence at Saint-Mande. Athos has
retired, once again to La Fere. D’Artagnan, little amused by the court’s
activities at Fontainebleau, and finding himself with nothing to do, has
returned to Paris, and we find him again in Planchet’s grocery shop.
And so, the story continues in this, the third etext of The Vicomte de
Bragelonne. Enjoy!
John Bursey
Chapter I. Malaga.
During all these long and noisy debates between the opposite ambitions
of politics and love, one of our characters, perhaps the one least
deserving of neglect, was, however, very much neglected, very much
forgotten, and exceedingly unhappy. In fact, D’Artagnan--D’Artagnan,
we say, for we must call him by his name, to remind our readers of his
existence--D’Artagnan, we repeat, had absolutely nothing whatever to do,
amidst these brilliant butterflies of fashion. After following the king
during two whole days at Fontainebleau, and critically observing
the various pastoral fancies and heroi-comic transformations of his
sovereign, the musketeer felt that he needed something more than this to
satisfy the cravings of his nature. At every moment assailed by
people asking him, “How do you think this costume suits me, Monsieur
d’Artagnan?” he would reply to them in quiet, sarcastic tones, “Why,
I think you are quite as well-dressed as the best-dressed monkey to
be found in the fair at Saint-Laurent.” It was just such a compliment
D’Artagnan would choose where he did not feel disposed to pay any other:
and, whether agreeable or not, the inquirer was obliged to be satisfied
with it. Whenever any one asked him, “How do you intend to dress
yourself this evening?” he replied, “I shall undress myself;” at which
the ladies all laughed, and a few of them blushed. But after a couple
of days passed in this manner, the musketeer, perceiving that nothing
serious was likely to arise which would concern him, and that the king
had completely, or, at least, appeared to have completely forgotten
Paris, Saint-Mande, and Belle-Isle--that M. Colbert’s mind was occupied
with illuminations and fireworks--that for the next month, at least,
the ladies had plenty of glances to bestow, and also to receive in
exchange--D’Artagnan asked the king for leave of absence for a matter of
private business. At the moment D’Artagnan made his request, his majesty
was on the point of going to bed, quite exhausted from dancing.
“You wish to leave me, Monsieur d’Artagnan?” inquired the king, with an
air of astonishment; for Louis XIV. could never understand why any one
who had the distinguished honor of being near him could wish to leave
him.
“Sire,” said D’Artagnan, “I leave you simply because I am not of the
slightest service to you in anything. Ah! if I could only hold the
balancing-pole while you were dancing, it would be a very different
affair.”
“But, my dear Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said the king, gravely, “people
dance without balancing-poles.”
“Ah! indeed,” said the musketeer, continuing his imperceptible tone of
irony, “I had no idea such a thing was possible.”
“You have not seen me dance, then?” inquired the king.
“Yes; but I always thought dancers went from easy to difficult acrobatic
feats. I was mistaken; all the more greater reason, therefore, that I
should leave for a time. Sire, I repeat, you have no present occasion
for my services; besides, if your majesty should have any need of me,
you would know where to find me.”
“Very well,” said the king, and he granted him leave of absence.
We shall not look for D’Artagnan, therefore, at Fontainebleau, for to do
so would be useless; but, with the permission of our readers, follow him
to the Rue des Lombards, where he was located at the sign of the Pilon
d’Or, in the house of our old friend Planchet. It was about eight
o’clock in the evening, and the weather was exceedingly warm; there
was only one window open, and that one belonging to a room on the
_entresol_. A perfume of spices, mingled with another perfume less
exotic, but more penetrating, namely, that which arose from the street,
ascended to salute the nostrils of the musketeer. D’Artagnan, reclining
in an immense straight-backed chair, with his legs not stretched out,
but simply placed upon a stool, formed an angle of the most obtuse form
that could possibly be seen. Both his arms were crossed over his head,
his head reclining upon his left shoulder, like Alexander the Great.
His eyes, usually so quick and intelligent in their expression, were
now half-closed, and seemed fastened, as it were, upon a small corner of
blue sky that was visible behind the opening of the chimneys; there was
just enough blue, and no more, to fill one of the sacks of lentils, or
haricots, which formed the principal furniture of the shop on the
ground floor. Thus extended at his ease, and sheltered in his place of
observation behind the window, D’Artagnan seemed as if he had ceased
to be a soldier, as if he were no longer an officer belonging to the
palace, but was, on the contrary, a quiet, easy-going citizen in a state
of stagnation between his dinner and supper, or between his supper and
his bed; one of those strong, ossified brains, which have no more room
for a single idea, so fiercely does animal matter keep watch at the
doors of intelligence, narrowly inspecting the contraband trade which
might result from the introduction into the brain of a symptom of
thought. We have already said night was closing in, the shops were being
lighted, while the windows of the upper apartments were being closed,
and the rhythmic steps of a patrol of soldiers forming the night watch
could be heard retreating. D’Artagnan continued, however, to think
of nothing, except the blue corner of the sky. A few paces from him,
completely in the shade, lying on his stomach, upon a sack of Indian
corn, was Planchet, with both his arms under his chin, and his eyes
fixed on D’Artagnan, who was either thinking, dreaming, or sleeping,
with his eyes open. Planchet had been watching him for a tolerably long
time, and, by way of interruption, he began by exclaiming, “Hum! hum!”
But D’Artagnan did not stir. Planchet then saw that it was necessary
to have recourse to more effectual means still: after a prolonged
reflection on the subject, the most ingenious means that suggested
itself to him under the present circumstances, was to let himself roll
off the sack on to the floor, murmuring, at the same time, against
himself, the word “stupid.” But, notwithstanding the noise produced
by Planchet’s fall, D’Artagnan, who had in the course of his existence
heard many other, and very different falls, did not appear to pay the
least attention to the present one. Besides, an enormous cart, laden
with stones, passing from the Rue Saint-Mederic, absorbed, in the noise
of its wheels, the noise of Planchet’s tumble. And yet Planchet fancied
that, in token of tacit approval, he saw him imperceptibly smile at the
word “stupid.” This emboldened him to say, “Are you asleep, Monsieur
d’Artagnan?”
“No, Planchet, I am not _even_ asleep,” replied the musketeer.
“I am in despair,” said Planchet, “to hear such a word as _even_.”
“Well, and why not; is it not a grammatical word, Monsieur Planchet?”
“Of course, Monsieur d’Artagnan.”
“Well!”
“Well, then, the word distresses me beyond measure.”
“Tell me why you are distressed, Planchet,” said D’Artagnan.
“If you say that you are not _even_ asleep, it is as much as to say that
you have not even the consolation of being able to sleep; or, better
still, it is precisely the same as telling me that you are getting bored
to death.”
“Planchet, you know that I am never bored.”
“Except to-day, and the day before yesterday.”
“Bah!”
“Monsieur d’Artagnan, it is a week since you returned here from
Fontainebleau; in other words, you have no longer your orders to issue,
or your men to review and maneuver. You need the sound of guns, drums,
and all that din and confusion; I, who have myself carried a musket, can
easily believe that.”
“Planchet,” replied D’Artagnan, “I assure you I am not bored in the
least in the world.”
“In that case, what are you doing, lying there, as if you were dead?”
“My dear Planchet, there was, once upon a time, at the siege of La
Rochelle, when I was there, when you were there, when we both were
there, a certain Arab, who was celebrated for the manner in which he
adjusted culverins. He was a clever fellow, although of a very odd
complexion, which was the same color as your olives. Well, this Arab,
whenever he had done eating or working, used to sit down to rest
himself, as I am resting myself now, and smoked I cannot tell you
what sort of magical leaves, in a large amber-mouthed tube; and if any
officers, happening to pass, reproached him for being always asleep, he
used quietly to reply: ‘Better to sit down than to stand up, to lie
down than to sit down, to be dead than to lie down.’ He was an acutely
melancholy Arab, and I remember him perfectly well, form the color of
his skin, and the style of his conversation. He used to cut off the
heads of Protestants with the most singular gusto!”
“Precisely; and then used to embalm them, when they were worth the
trouble; and when he was thus engaged with his herbs and plants about
him, he looked like a basket-maker making baskets.”
“You are quite right, Planchet, he did.”
“Oh! I can remember things very well, at times!”
“I have no doubt of it; but what do you think of his mode of reasoning?”
“I think it good in one sense, but very stupid in another.”
“Expound your meaning, M. Planchet.”
“Well, monsieur, in point of fact, then, ‘better to sit down than to
stand up,’ is plain enough, especially when one may be fatigued,” and
Planchet smiled in a roguish way; “as for ‘better to be lying down,’
let that pass, but as for the last proposition, that it is ‘better to
be dead than alive,’ it is, in my opinion, very absurd, my own undoubted
preference being for my bed; and if you are not of my opinion, it is
simply, as I have already had the honor of telling you, because you are
boring yourself to death.”
“Planchet, do you know M. La Fontaine?”
“The chemist at the corner of the Rue Saint-Mederic?”
“No, the writer of fables.”
“Oh! _Maitre Corbeau!_”
“Exactly; well, then, I am like his hare.”
“He has got a hare also, then?”
“He has all sorts of animals.”
“Well, what does his hare do, then?”
“M. La Fontaine’s hare thinks.”
“Ah, ah!”
“Planchet, I am like that hare--I am thinking.”
“You are thinking, you say?” said Planchet, uneasily.
“Yes; your house is dull enough to drive people to think; you will admit
that, I hope.”
“And yet, monsieur, you have a look-out upon the street.”
“Yes; and wonderfully interesting that is, of course.”
“But it is no less true, monsieur, that, if you were living at the back
of the house, you would bore yourself--I mean, you would think--more
than ever.”
“Upon my word, Planchet, I hardly know that.”
“Still,” said the grocer, “if your reflections are at all like those
which led you to restore King Charles II.--” and Planchet finished by a
little laugh which was not without its meaning.
“Ah! Planchet, my friend,” returned D’Artagnan, “you are getting
ambitious.”
“Is there no other king to be restored, M. d’Artagnan--no second Monk to
be packed up, like a salted hog, in a deal box?”
“No, my dear Planchet; all the kings are seated on their respective
thrones; less comfortably so, perhaps, than I am upon this chair; but,
at all events, there they are.” And D’Artagnan sighed deeply.
“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said Planchet, “you are making me very uneasy.”
“You are very good, Planchet.”
“I begin to suspect something.”
“What is it?”
“Monsieur d’Artagnan, you are getting thin.”
“Oh!” said D’Artagnan, striking his chest which sounded like an empty
cuirass, “it is impossible, Planchet.”
“Ah!” said Planchet, slightly overcome; “if you were to get thin in my
house--”
“Well?”
“I should do something rash.”
“What would you do? Tell me.”
“I should look out for the man who was the cause of all your anxieties.”
“Ah! according to your account, I am anxious now.”
“Yes, you are anxious; and you are getting thin, visibly getting thin.
_Malaga!_ if you go on getting thin, in this way, I will take my sword
in my hand, and go straight to M. d’Herblay, and have it out with him.”
“What!” said M. d’Artagnan, starting in his chair; “what’s that you say?
And what has M. d’Herblay’s name to do with your groceries?”
“Just as you please. Get angry if you like, or call me names, if you
prefer it; but, the deuce is in it. _I know what I know_.”
D’Artagnan had, during this second outburst of Planchet’s, so placed
himself as not to lose a single look of his face; that is, he sat with
both his hands resting on both his knees, and his head stretched out
towards the grocer. “Come, explain yourself,” he said, “and tell me
how you could possibly utter such a blasphemy. M. d’Herblay, your old
master, my friend, an ecclesiastic, a musketeer turned bishop--do you
mean to say you would raise your sword against him, Planchet?”
“I could raise my sword against my own father, when I see you in such a
state as you are now.”
“M. d’Herblay, a gentleman!”
“It’s all the same to me whether he’s a gentleman or not. He gives you
the blue devils, that is all I know. And the blue devils make people
get thin. _Malaga!_ I have no notion of M. d’Artagnan leaving my house
thinner than when he entered it.”
“How does he give me the blue devils, as you call it? Come, explain,
explain.”
“You have had the nightmare during the last three nights.”
“I?”
“Yes, you; and in your nightmare you called out, several times, ‘Aramis,
deceitful Aramis!’”
“Ah! I said that, did I?” murmured D’Artagnan, uneasily.
“Yes, those very words, upon my honor.”
“Well, what else? You know the saying, Planchet, ‘dreams go by
contraries.’”
“Not so; for every time, during the last three days, when you went out,
you have not once failed to ask me, on your return, ‘Have you seen
M. d’Herblay?’ or else ‘Have you received any letters for me from M.
d’Herblay?’”
“Well, it is very natural I should take an interest in my old friend,”
said D’Artagnan.
“Of course; but not to such an extent as to get thin on that account.”
“Planchet, I’ll get fatter; I give you my word of honor I will.”
“Very well, monsieur, I accept it; for I know that when you give your
word of honor, it is sacred.”
“I will not dream of Aramis any more; and I will never ask you again
if there are any letters from M. d’Herblay; but on condition that you
explain one thing to me.”
“Tell me what it is, monsieur?”
“I am a great observer; and just now you made use of a very singular
oath, which is unusual for you.”
“You mean _Malaga!_ I suppose?”
“Precisely.”
“It is the oath I have used ever since I have been a grocer.”
“Very proper, too; it is the name of a dried grape, or raisin, I
believe?”
“It is my most ferocious oath; when I have once said _Malaga!_ I am a
man no longer.”
“Still, I never knew you use that oath before.”
“Very likely not, monsieur. I had a present made me of it,” said
Planchet; and, as he pronounced these words, he winked his eye with a
cunning expression, which thoroughly awakened D’Artagnan’s attention.
“Come, come, M. Planchet.”
“Why, I am not like you, monsieur,” said Planchet. “I don’t pass my life
in thinking.”
“You do wrong, then.”
“I mean in boring myself to death. We have but a very short time to
live--why not make the best of it?”
“You are an Epicurean philosopher, I begin to think, Planchet.”
“Why not? My hand is still as steady as ever; I can write, and can weigh
out my sugar and spices; my foot is firm; I can dance and walk about; my
stomach has its teeth still, for I eat and digest very well; my heart is
not quite hardened. Well, monsieur?”
“Well, what, Planchet?”
“Why, you see--” said the grocer, rubbing his hands together.
D’Artagnan crossed one leg over the other, and said, “Planchet, my
friend, I am unnerved with extreme surprise; for you are revealing
yourself to me under a perfectly new light.”
Planchet, flattered in the highest degree by this remark, continued to
rub his hands very hard together. “Ah, ah,” he said, “because I happen
to be only slow, you think me, perhaps, a positive fool.”
“Very good, Planchet; very well reasoned.”
“Follow my idea, monsieur, if you please. I said to myself,” continued
Planchet, “that, without enjoyment, there is no happiness on this
earth.”
“Quite true, what you say, Planchet,” interrupted D’Artagnan.
“At all events, if we cannot obtain pleasure--for pleasure is not so
common a thing, after all--let us, at least, get consolations of some
kind or another.”
“And so you console yourself?”
“Exactly so.”
“Tell me how you console yourself.”
“I put on a buckler for the purpose of confronting _ennui_. I place my
time at the direction of patience; and on the very eve of feeling I am
going to get bored, I amuse myself.”
“And you don’t find any difficulty in that?”
“None.”
“And you found it out quite by yourself?”
“Quite so.”
“It is miraculous.”
“What do you say?”
“I say, that your philosophy is not to be matched in the Christian or
pagan world, in modern days or in antiquity!”
“You think so?--follow my example, then.”
“It is a very tempting one.”
“Do as I do.”
“I could not wish for anything better; but all minds are not of the same
stamp; and it might possibly happen that if I were required to amuse
myself in the manner you do, I should bore myself horribly.”
“Bah! at least try first.”
“Well, tell me what you do.”
“Have you observed that I leave home occasionally?”
“Yes.”
“In any particular way?”
“Periodically.”
“That’s the very thing. You have noticed it, then?”
“My dear Planchet, you must understand that when people see each other
every day, and one of the two absents himself, the other misses him. Do
you not feel the want of my society when I am in the country?”
“Prodigiously; that is to say, I feel like a body without a soul.”
“That being understood then, proceed.”
“What are the periods when I absent myself?”
“On the fifteenth and thirtieth of every month.”
“And I remain away?”
“Sometimes two, sometimes three, and sometimes four days at a time.”
“Have you ever given it a thought, why I was absent?”
“To look after your debts, I suppose.”
“And when I returned, how did you think I looked, as far as my face was
concerned?”
“Exceedingly self-satisfied.”
“You admit, you say, that I always look satisfied. And what have you
attributed my satisfaction to?”
“That your business was going on very well; that your purchases of rice,
prunes, raw sugar, dried apples, pears, and treacle were advantageous.
You were always very picturesque in your notions and ideas, Planchet;
and I was not in the slightest degree surprised to find you had selected
grocery as an occupation, which is of all trades the most varied, and
the very pleasantest, as far as the character is concerned; inasmuch as
one handles so many natural and perfumed productions.”
“Perfectly true, monsieur; but you are very greatly mistaken.”
“In what way?”
“In thinking that I leave here every fortnight, to collect my money or
to make purchases. Ho, ho! how could you possibly have thought such
a thing? Ho, ho, ho!” And Planchet began to laugh in a manner that
inspired D’Artagnan with very serious misgivings as to his sanity.
“I confess,” said the musketeer, “that I do not precisely catch your
meaning.”
“Very true, monsieur.”
“What do you mean by ‘very true’?”
“It must be true, since you say it; but pray, be assured that it in no
way lessens my opinion of you.”
“Ah, that is lucky.”
“No; you are a man of genius; and whenever the question happens to be
of war, tactics, surprises, or good honest blows to be dealt with, why,
kings are marionettes, compared to you. But for the consolations of the
mind, the proper care of the body, the agreeable things of like, if one
may say so--ah! monsieur, don’t talk to me about men of genius; they are
nothing short of executioners.”
“Good,” said D’Artagnan, really fidgety with curiosity, “upon my word
you interest me in the highest degree.”
“You feel already less bored than you did just now, do you not?”
“I was not bored; yet since you have been talking to me, I feel more
animated.”
“Very good, then; that is not a bad beginning. I will cure you, rely
upon that.”
“There is nothing I should like better.”
“Will you let me try, then?”
“Immediately, if you like.”
“Very well. Have you any horses here?”
“Yes; ten, twenty, thirty.”
“Oh, there is no occasion for so many as that, two will be quite
sufficient.”
“They are quite at your disposal, Planchet.”
“Very good; then I shall carry you off with me.”
“When?”
“To-morrow.”
“Where?”
“Ah, you are asking too much.”
“You will admit, however, that it is important I should know where I am
going.”
“Do you like the country?”
“Only moderately, Planchet.”
“In that case you like town better?”
“That is as may be.”
“Very well; I am going to take you to a place, half town and half
country.”
“Good.”
“To a place where I am sure you will amuse yourself.”
“Is it possible?”
“Yes; and more wonderful still, to a place from which you have just
returned for the purpose only, it would seem, of getting bored here.”
“It is to Fontainebleau you are going, then?”
“Exactly; to Fontainebleau.”
“And, in Heaven’s name, what are you going to do at Fontainebleau?”
Planchet answered D’Artagnan by a wink full of sly humor.
“You have some property there, you rascal.”
“Oh, a very paltry affair; a little bit of a house--nothing more.”
“I understand you.”
“But it is tolerable enough, after all.”
“I am going to Planchet’s country-seat!” exclaimed D’Artagnan.
“Whenever you like.”
“Did we not fix to-morrow?”
“Let us say to-morrow, if you like; and then, besides, to-morrow is the
14th, that is to say, the day before the one when I am afraid of getting
bored; so we will look upon it as an understood thing.”
“Agreed, by all means.”
“You will lend me one of your horses?”
“The best I have.”
“No; I prefer the gentlest of all; I never was a very good rider, as
you know, and in my grocery business I have got more awkward than ever;
besides--”
“Besides what?”
“Why,” added Planchet, “I do not wish to fatigue myself.”
“Why so?” D’Artagnan ventured to ask.
“Because I should lose half the pleasure I expect to enjoy,” replied
Planchet. And thereupon he rose from his sack of Indian corn, stretching
himself, and making all his bones crack, one after the other, with a
sort of harmony.
“Planchet! Planchet!” exclaimed D’Artagnan, “I do declare that there is
no sybarite upon the face of the globe who can for a moment be compared
to you. Oh, Planchet, it is very clear that we have never yet eaten a
ton of salt together.”
“Why so, monsieur?”
“Because, even now I can scarcely say I know you,” said D’Artagnan, “and
because, in point of fact, I return to the opinion which, for a moment,
I had formed of you that day at Boulogne, when you strangled, or did so
as nearly as possible, M. de Wardes’s valet, Lubin; in plain language,
Planchet, that you are a man of great resources.”
Planchet began to laugh with a laugh full of self-conceit; bade the
musketeer good-night, and went down to his back shop, which he used as
a bedroom. D’Artagnan resumed his original position upon his chair, and
his brow, which had been unruffled for a moment, became more pensive
than ever. He had already forgotten the whims and dreams of Planchet.
“Yes,” said he, taking up again the thread of his thoughts, which
had been broken by the whimsical conversation in which we have just
permitted our readers to participate. “Yes, yes, those three points
include everything: First, to ascertain what Baisemeaux wanted with
Aramis; secondly, to learn why Aramis does not let me hear from him; and
thirdly, to ascertain where Porthos is. The whole mystery lies in these
three points. Since, therefore,” continued D’Artagnan, “our friends tell
us nothing, we must have recourse to our own poor intelligence. I must
do what I can, _mordioux_, or rather _Malaga_, as Planchet would say.”