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Louise de la Vallière

by Alexandre Dumas · English · Gutenberg #2710 · 978,159 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Louise de la Vallière

Author: Alexandre Dumas
        Auguste Maquet


        
Release date: July 1, 2001 [eBook #2710]
                Most recently updated: April 24, 2025

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2710

Credits: John Bursey and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOUISE DE LA VALLIÈRE ***

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.”



Chapter II. A Letter from M. Baisemeaux.

D’Artagnan, faithful to his plan, went the very next morning to pay
a visit to M. de Baisemeaux. It was cleaning up or tidying day at the
Bastile; the cannons were furbished up, the staircases scraped and
cleaned; and the jailers seemed to be carefully engaged in polishing
the very keys. As for the soldiers belonging to the garrison, they were
walking about in different courtyards, under the pretense that they were
clean enough. The governor, Baisemeaux, received D’Artagnan with more
than ordinary politeness, but he behaved towards him with so marked a
reserve of manner, that all D’Artagnan’s tact and cleverness could not
get a syllable out of him. The more he kept himself within bounds,
the more D’Artagnan’s suspicion increased. The latter even fancied he
remarked that the governor was acting under the influence of a recent
recommendation. Baisemeaux had not been at the Palais Royal with
D’Artagnan the same cold and impenetrable man which the latter now found
in the Baisemeaux of the Bastile. When D’Artagnan wished to make him
talk about the urgent money matters which had brought Baisemeaux in
search of D’Artagnan, and had rendered him expansive, notwithstanding
what had passed on that evening, Baisemeaux pretended that he had some
orders to give in the prison, and left D’Artagnan so long alone waiting
for him, that our musketeer, feeling sure that he should not get another
syllable out of him, left the Bastile without waiting until Baisemeaux
returned from his inspection. But D’Artagnan’s suspicions were aroused,
and when once that was the case, D’Artagnan could not sleep or remain
quiet for a moment. He was among men what the cat is among quadrupeds,
the emblem of anxiety and impatience, at the same moment. A restless cat
can no more remain the same place than a silk thread wafted idly to and
fro with every breath of air. A cat on the watch is as motionless as
death stationed at its place of observation, and neither hunger nor
thirst can draw it from its meditations. D’Artagnan, who was burning
with impatience, suddenly threw aside the feeling, like a cloak which
he felt too heavy on his shoulders, and said to himself that that which
they were concealing from him was the very thing it was important he
should know; and, consequently, he reasoned that Baisemeaux would not
fail to put Aramis on his guard, if Aramis had given him any particular
recommendation, and this was, in fact, the very thing that happened.

Baisemeaux had hardly had time to return from the donjon, than
D’Artagnan placed himself in ambuscade close to the Rue de Petit-Musc,
so as to see every one who might leave the gates of the Bastile. After
he had spent an hour on the look-out from the “Golden Portcullis,” under
the pent-house of which he could keep himself a little in the shade,
D’Artagnan observed a soldier leave the Bastile. This was, indeed, the
surest indication he could possibly have wished for, as every jailer
or warder has certain days, and even certain hours, for leaving the
Bastile, since all are alike prohibited from having either wives or
lodgings in the castle, and can accordingly leave without exciting any
curiosity; but a soldier once in barracks is kept there for four and
twenty hours when on duty,--and no one knew this better than D’Artagnan.
The guardsman in question, therefore, was not likely to leave his
regimentals, except on an express and urgent order. The soldier, we
were saying, left the Bastile at a slow and lounging pace, like a happy
mortal, in fact, who, instead of mounting sentry before a wearisome
guard-house, or upon a bastion no less wearisome, has the good luck
to get a little liberty, in addition to a walk--both pleasures being
luckily reckoned as part of his time on duty. He bent his steps towards
the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, enjoying the fresh air and the warmth of the
sun, and looking at all the pretty faces he passed. D’Artagnan followed
him at a distance; he had not yet arranged his ideas as what was to be
done. “I must, first of all,” he thought, “see the fellow’s face. A man
seen is a man judged.” D’Artagnan increased his pace, and, which was not
very difficult, by the by, soon got in advance of the soldier. Not only
did he observe that his face showed a tolerable amount of intelligence
and resolution, but he noticed also that his nose was a little red. “He
has a weakness for brandy, I see,” said D’Artagnan to himself. At the
same moment that he remarked his red nose, he saw that the soldier had a
white paper in his belt.

“Good, he has a letter,” added D’Artagnan. The only difficulty was to
get hold of the letter. But a common soldier would, of course, be only
too delighted at having been selected by M. de Baisemeaux as a special
messenger, and would not be likely to sell his message. As D’Artagnan
was biting his nails, the soldier continued to advance more and more
into the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. “He is certainly going to Saint-Mande,”
 he said to himself, “and I shall not be able to learn what the letter
contains.” It was enough to drive him wild. “If I were in uniform,” said
D’Artagnan to himself, “I would have this fellow seized, and his letter
with him. I could easily get assistance at the very first guard-house;
but the devil take me if I mention my name in an affair of this kind.
If I were to treat him to something to drink, his suspicions would be
roused; and besides, he might drink me drunk. _Mordioux!_ my wits
seem to have left me,” said D’Artagnan; “it is all over with me. Yet,
supposing I were to attack this poor devil, make him draw his sword
and kill him for the sake of his letter? No harm in that, if it were
a question of a letter from a queen to a nobleman, or a letter from a
cardinal to a queen; but what miserable intrigues are those of Messieurs
Aramis and Fouquet with M. Colbert. A man’s life for that? No, no,
indeed; not even ten crowns.” As he philosophized in this manner, biting
first his nails, and then his mustaches, he perceived a group of archers
and a commissary of the police engaged in carrying away a man of very
gentlemanly exterior, who was struggling with all his might against
them. The archers had torn his clothes, and were dragging him roughly
away. He begged they would lead him along more respectfully, asserting
that he was a gentleman and a soldier. And observing our soldier walking
in the street, he called out, “Help, comrade.”

The soldier walked on with the same step towards the man who had
called out to him, followed by the crowd. An idea suddenly occurred to
D’Artagnan; it was his first one, and we shall find it was not a bad one
either. During the time the gentleman was relating to the soldier that
he had just been seized in a house as a thief, when the truth was he
was only there as a lover; and while the soldier was pitying him, and
offering him consolation and advice with that gravity which a French
soldier has always ready whenever his vanity or his _esprit de corps_ is
concerned, D’Artagnan glided behind the soldier, who was closely hemmed
in by the crowd, and with a rapid sweep, like a sabre slash, snatched
the letter from his belt. As at this moment the gentleman with the torn
clothes was pulling about the soldier, to show how the commissary of
police had pulled him about, D’Artagnan effected his pillage of the
letter without the slightest interference. He stationed himself about
ten paces distant, behind the pillar of an adjoining house, and read
on the address, “To Monsieur du Vallon, at Monsieur Fouquet’s,
Saint-Mande.”

“Good!” he said, and then he unsealed, without tearing the letter,
drew out the paper, which was folded in four, from the inside; which
contained only these words:

“DEAR MONSIEUR DU VALLON,--Will you be good enough to tell Monsieur
d’Herblay that _he_ has been to the Bastile, and has been making
inquiries.

“Your devoted

“DE BAISEMEAUX.”


“Very good! all right!” exclaimed D’Artagnan; “it is clear enough now.
Porthos is engaged in it.” Being now satisfied of what he wished to
know: “_Mordioux!_” thought the musketeer, “what is to be done with that
poor devil of a soldier? That hot-headed, cunning fellow, De Baisemeaux,
will make him pay dearly for my trick,--if he returns without the
letter, what will they do to him? Besides, I don’t want the letter;
when the egg has been sucked, what is the good of the shell?” D’Artagnan
perceived that the commissary and the archers had succeeded in
convincing the soldier, and went on their way with the prisoner,
the latter being still surrounded by the crowd, and continuing his
complaints. D’Artagnan advanced into the very middle of the crowd, let
the letter fall, without any one having observed him, and then retreated
rapidly. The soldier resumed his route towards Saint-Mande, his mind
occupied with the gentleman who had implored his protection. Suddenly
he thought of his letter, and, looking at his belt, saw that it was no
longer there. D’Artagnan derived no little satisfaction from his sudden,
terrified cry. The poor soldier in the greatest anguish of mind looked
round him on every side, and at last, about twenty paces behind him,
he perceived the lucky envelope. He pounced on it like a falcon on its
prey. The envelope was certainly a little dirty, and rather crumpled,
but at all events the letter itself was found. D’Artagnan observed that
the broken seal attracted the soldier’s attention a good deal, but he
finished apparently by consoling himself, and returned the letter to his
belt. “Go on,” said D’Artagnan, “I have plenty of time before me, so you
may precede me. It appears that Aramis is not in Paris, since Baisemeaux
writes to Porthos. Dear Porthos, how delighted I shall be to see him
again, and to have some conversation with him!” said the Gascon. And,
regulating his pace according to that of the soldier, he promised
himself to arrive a quarter of an hour after him at M. Fouquet’s.



Chapter III. In Which the Reader will be Delighted to Find that Porthos
Has Lost Nothing of His Muscularity.

D’Artagnan had, according to his usual style, calculated that every hour
is worth sixty minutes, and every minute worth sixty seconds. Thanks to
this perfectly exact calculation of minutes and seconds, he reached the
superintendent’s door at the very moment the soldier was leaving it with
his belt empty. D’Artagnan presented himself at the door, which a porter
with a profusely embroidered livery held half opened for him. D’Artagnan
would very much have liked to enter without giving his name, but this
was impossible, and so he gave it. Notwithstanding this concession,
which ought to have removed every difficulty in the way, at least
D’Artagnan thought so, the _concierge_ hesitated; however, at the second
repetition of the title, captain of the king’s guards, the _concierge_,
without quite leaving the passage clear for him, ceased to bar it
completely. D’Artagnan understood that orders of the most positive
character had been given. He decided, therefore, to tell a falsehood,--a
circumstance, moreover, which did not seriously affect his peace of
mind, when he saw that beyond the falsehood the safety of the state
itself, or even purely and simply his own individual personal interest,
might be at stake. He moreover added to the declarations he had already
made, that the soldier sent to M. du Vallon was his own messenger,
and that the only object that letter had in view was to announce his
intended arrival. From that moment, no one opposed D’Artagnan’s entrance
any further, and he entered accordingly. A valet wished to accompany
him, but he answered that it was useless to take that trouble on his
account, inasmuch as he knew perfectly well where M. du Vallon was.
There was nothing, of course, to say to a man so thoroughly and
completely informed on all points, and D’Artagnan was permitted,
therefore, to do as he liked. The terraces, the magnificent apartments,
the gardens, were all reviewed and narrowly inspected by the musketeer.
He walked for a quarter of an hour in this more than royal residence,
which included as many wonders as articles of furniture, and as many
servants as there were columns and doors. “Decidedly,” he said to
himself, “this mansion has no other limits than the pillars of the
habitable world. Is it probable Porthos has taken it into his head to go
back to Pierrefonds without even leaving M. Fouquet’s house?” He finally
reached a remote part of the chateau inclosed by a stone wall, which was
covered with a profusion of thick plants, luxuriant in blossoms as large
and solid as fruit. At equal distances on the top of this wall were
placed various statues in timid or mysterious attitudes. These were
vestals hidden beneath the long Greek peplum, with its thick, sinuous
folds; agile nymphs, covered with their marble veils, and guarding the
palace with their fugitive glances. A statue of Hermes, with his
finger on his lips; one of Iris, with extended wings; another of Night,
sprinkled all over with poppies, dominated the gardens and outbuildings,
which could be seen through the trees. All these statues threw in white
relief their profiles upon the dark ground of the tall cypresses, which
darted their somber summits towards the sky. Around these cypresses were
entwined climbing roses, whose flowering rings were fastened to every
fork of the branches, and spread over the lower boughs and the various
statues, showers of flowers of the rarest fragrance. These enchantments
seemed to the musketeer the result of the greatest efforts of the human
mind. He felt in a dreamy, almost poetical, frame of mind. The idea
that Porthos was living in so perfect an Eden gave him a higher idea of
Porthos, showing how tremendously true it is, that even the very highest
orders of minds are not quite exempt from the influence of surroundings.
D’Artagnan found the door, and on, or rather in the door, a kind
of spring which he detected; having touched it, the door flew open.
D’Artagnan entered, closed the door behind him, and advanced into a
pavilion built in a circular form, in which no other sound could be
heard but cascades and the songs of birds. At the door of the pavilion
he met a lackey.

“It is here, I believe,” said D’Artagnan, without hesitation, “that M.
le Baron du Vallon is staying?”

“Yes, monsieur,” answered the lackey.

“Have the goodness to tell him that M. le Chevalier d’Artagnan, captain
of the king’s musketeers, is waiting to see him.”

D’Artagnan was introduced into the _salon_, and had not long to remain
in expectation: a well-remembered step shook the floor of the adjoining
room, a door opened, or rather flew open, and Porthos appeared and threw
himself into his friend’s arms with a sort of embarrassment which did
not ill become him. “You here?” he exclaimed.

“And you?” replied D’Artagnan. “Ah, you sly fellow!”

“Yes,” said Porthos, with a somewhat embarrassed smile; “yes, you see
I am staying in M. Fouquet’s house, at which you are not a little
surprised, I suppose?”

“Not at all; why should you not be one of M. Fouquet’s friends? M.
Fouquet has a very large number, particularly among clever men.”

Porthos had the modesty not to take the compliment to himself.
“Besides,” he added, “you saw me at Belle-Isle.”

“A greater reason for my believing you to be one of M. Fouquet’s
friends.”

“The fact is, I am acquainted with him,” said Porthos, with a certain
embarrassment of manner.

“Ah, friend Porthos,” said D’Artagnan, “how treacherously you have
behaved towards me.”

“In what way?” exclaimed Porthos.

“What! you complete so admirable a work as the fortifications of
Belle-Isle, and you did not tell me of it!” Porthos colored. “Nay, more
than that,” continued D’Artagnan, “you saw me out yonder, you know I
am in the king’s service, and yet you could not guess that the king,
jealously desirous of learning the name of the man whose abilities had
wrought a work of which he heard the most wonderful accounts,--you could
not guess, I say, that the king sent me to learn who this man was?”

“What! the king sent you to learn--”

“Of course; but don’t let us speak of that any more.”

“Not speak of it!” said Porthos; “on the contrary, we will speak of it;
and so the king knew that we were fortifying Belle-Isle?”

“Of course; does not the king know everything?”

“But he did not know who was fortifying it?”

“No, he only suspected, from what he had been told of the nature of the
works, that it was some celebrated soldier or another.”

“The devil!” said Porthos, “if I had only known that!”

“You would not have run away from Vannes as you did, perhaps?”

“No; what did you say when you couldn’t find me?”

“My dear fellow, I reflected.”

“Ah, indeed; you reflect, do you? Well, and what did that reflection
lead to?”

“It led me to guess the whole truth.”

“Come, then, tell me what did you guess after all?” said Porthos,
settling himself into an armchair, and assuming the airs of a sphinx.

“I guessed, in the first place, that you were fortifying Belle-Isle.”

“There was no great difficulty in that, for you saw me at work.”

“Wait a minute; I also guessed something else,--that you were fortifying
Belle-Isle by M. Fouquet’s orders.”

“That’s true.”

“But even that is not all. Whenever I feel myself in trim for guessing,
I do not stop on my road; and so I guessed that M. Fouquet wished to
preserve the most absolute secrecy respecting these fortifications.”

“I believe that was his intention, in fact,” said Porthos.

“Yes, but do you know why he wished to keep it secret?”

“In order it should not become known, perhaps,” said Porthos.

“That was his principal reason. But his wish was subservient to a bit of
generosity--”

“In fact,” said Porthos, “I have heard it said that M. Fouquet was a very
generous man.”

“To a bit of generosity he wished to exhibit towards the king.”

“Oh, oh!”

“You seem surprised at that?”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t guess?”

“No.”

“Well, I know it, then.”

“You are a wizard.”

“Not at all, I assure you.”

“How do you know it, then?”

“By a very simple means. I heard M. Fouquet himself say so to the king.”

“Say what to the king?”

“That he fortified Belle-Isle on his majesty’s account, and that he had
made him a present of Belle Isle.”

“And you heard M. Fouquet say that to the king?”

“In those very words. He even added: ‘Belle-Isle has been fortified by
an engineer, one of my friends, a man of a great deal of merit, whom I
shall ask your majesty’s permission to present to you.’

“‘What is his name?’ said the king.

“‘The Baron du Vallon,’ M. Fouquet replied.

“‘Very well,’ returned his majesty, ‘you will present him to me.’”

“The king said that?”

“Upon the word of a D’Artagnan!”

“Oh, oh!” said Porthos. “Why have I not been presented, then?”

“Have they not spoken to you about this presentation?”

“Yes, certainly; but I am always kept waiting for it.”

“Be easy, it will be sure to come.”

“Humph! humph!” grumbled Porthos, which D’Artagnan pretended not to
hear; and, changing the conversation, he said, “You seem to be living in
a very solitary place here, my dear fellow?”

“I always preferred retirement. I am of a melancholy disposition,”
 replied Porthos, with a sigh.

“Really, that is odd,” said D’Artagnan, “I never remarked that before.”

“It is only since I have taken to reading,” said Porthos, with a
thoughtful air.

“But the labors of the mind have not affected the health of the body, I
trust?”

“Not in the slightest degree.”

“Your strength is as great as ever?”

“Too great, my friend, too great.”

“Ah! I had heard that, for a short time after your arrival--”

“That I could hardly move a limb, I suppose?”

“How was it?” said D’Artagnan, smiling, “and why was it you could not
move?”

Porthos, perceiving that he had made a mistake, wished to correct it.
“Yes, I came from Belle-Isle upon very hard horses,” he said, “and that
fatigued me.”

“I am no longer astonished, then, since I, who followed you, found seven
or eight lying dead on the road.”

“I am very heavy, you know,” said Porthos.

“So that you were bruised all over.”

“My marrow melted, and that made me very ill.”

“Poor Porthos! But how did Aramis act towards you under those
circumstances?”

“Very well, indeed. He had me attended to by M. Fouquet’s own doctor.
But just imagine, at the end of a week I could not breathe any longer.”

“What do you mean?”

“The room was too small; I had absorbed every atom of air.”

“Indeed?”

“I was told so, at least; and so I was removed into another apartment.”

“Where you were able to breathe, I hope and trust?”

“Yes, more freely; but no exercise--nothing to do. The doctor pretended
that I was not to stir; I, on the contrary, felt that I was stronger
than ever; that was the cause of a very serious accident.”

“What accident?”

“Fancy, my dear fellow, that I revolted against the directions of that
ass of a doctor, and I resolved to go out, whether it suited him or
not: and, consequently, I told the valet who waited on me to bring me my
clothes.”

“You were quite naked, then?”

“Oh, no! on the contrary, I had a magnificent dressing-gown to wear. The
lackey obeyed; I dressed myself in my own clothes, which had become
too large for me; but a strange circumstance had happened,--my feet had
become too large.”

“Yes, I quite understand.”

“And my boots too small.”

“You mean your feet were still swollen?”

“Exactly; you have hit it.”

“_Pardieu!_ And is that the accident you were going to tell me about?”

“Oh, yes; I did not make the same reflection you have done. I said to
myself: ‘Since my feet have entered my boots ten times, there is no
reason why they should not go in the eleventh.’”

“Allow me to tell you, my dear Porthos, that on this occasion you failed
in your logic.”

“In short, then, they placed me opposite to a part of the room which
was partitioned; I tried to get my boot on; I pulled it with my hands,
I pushed with all the strength of the muscles of my leg, making the most
unheard-of efforts, when suddenly the two tags of my boot remained in my
hands, and my foot struck out like a ballista.”

“How learned you are in fortification, dear Porthos.”

“My foot darted out like a ballista, and came against the partition,
which it broke in; I really thought that, like Samson, I had demolished
the temple. And the number of pictures, the quantity of china, vases
of flowers, carpets, and window-panes that fell down were really
wonderful.”

“Indeed!”

“Without reckoning that on the other side of the partition was a small
table laden with porcelain--”

“Which you knocked over?”

“Which I dashed to the other side of the room,” said Porthos, laughing.

“Upon my word, it is, as you say, astonishing,” replied D’Artagnan,
beginning to laugh also; whereupon Porthos laughed louder than ever.

“I broke,” said Porthos, in a voice half-choked from his increasing
mirth, “more than three thousand francs worth of china--ha, ha, ha!”

“Good!” said D’Artagnan.

“I smashed more than four thousand francs worth of glass!--ho, ho, ho!”

“Excellent.”

“Without counting a luster, which fell on my head and was broken into a
thousand pieces--ha, ha, ha!”

“Upon your head?” said D’Artagnan, holding his sides.

“On top.”

“But your head was broken, I suppose?”

“No, since I tell you, on the contrary, my dear fellow, that it was the
luster which was broken, like glass, which, in point of fact, it was.”

“Ah! the luster was glass, you say.”

“Venetian glass! a perfect curiosity, quite matchless, indeed, and
weighed two hundred pounds.”

“And it fell upon your head!”

“Upon my head. Just imagine, a globe of crystal, gilded all over, the
lower part beautifully encrusted, perfumes burning at the top, with jets
from which flame issued when they were lighted.”

“I quite understand, but they were not lighted at the time, I suppose?”

“Happily not, or I should have been grilled prematurely.”

“And you were only knocked down flat, instead?”

“Not at all.”

“How, ‘not at all?’”

“Why, the luster fell on my skull. It appears that we have upon the top
of our heads an exceedingly thick crust.”

“Who told you that, Porthos?”

“The doctor. A sort of dome which would bear Notre-Dame.”

“Bah!”

“Yes, it seems that our skulls are made in that manner.”

“Speak for yourself, my dear fellow, it is your own skull that is made
in that manner, and not the skulls of other people.”

“Well, that may be so,” said Porthos, conceitedly, “so much, however,
was that the case, in my instance, that no sooner did the luster fall
upon the dome which we have at the top of our head, than there was a
report like a cannon, the crystal was broken to pieces, and I fell,
covered from head to foot.”

“With blood, poor Porthos!”

“Not at all; with perfumes, which smelt like rich creams; it was
delicious, but the odor was too strong, and I felt quite giddy from it;
perhaps you have experienced it sometimes yourself, D’Artagnan?”

“Yes, in inhaling the scent of the lily of the valley; so that, my
poor friend, you were knocked over by the shock and overpowered by the
perfumes?”

“Yes; but what is very remarkable, for the doctor told me he had never
seen anything like it--”

“You had a bump on your head I suppose?” interrupted D’Artagnan.

“I had five.”

“Why five?”

“I will tell you; the luster had, at its lower extremity, five gilt
ornaments; excessively sharp.”

“Oh!”

“Well, these five ornaments penetrated my hair, which, as you see, I
wear very thick.”

“Fortunately so.”

“And they made a mark on my skin. But just notice the singularity of
it, these things seem really only to happen to me! Instead of making
indentations, they made bumps. The doctor could never succeed in
explaining that to me satisfactorily.”

“Well, then, I will explain it to you.”

“You will do me a great service if you will,” said Porthos, winking his
eyes, which, with him, was sign of the profoundest attention.

“Since you have been employing your brain in studies of an exalted
character, in important calculations, and so on, the head has gained a
certain advantage, so that your head is now too full of science.”

“Do you think so?”

“I am sure of it. The result is, that, instead of allowing any foreign
matter to penetrate the interior of the head, your bony box or skull,
which is already too full, avails itself of the openings which are made
in allowing this excess to escape.”

“Ah!” said Porthos, to whom this explanation appeared clearer than that
of the doctor.

“The five protuberances, caused by the five ornaments of the luster,
must certainly have been scientific globules, brought to the surface by
the force of circumstances.”

“In fact,” said Porthos, “the real truth is, that I felt far worse
outside my head than inside. I will even confess, that when I put my hat
upon my head, clapping it on my head with that graceful energy which we
gentlemen of the sword possess, if my fist was not very gently applied,
I experienced the most painful sensations.”

“I quite believe you, Porthos.”

“Therefore, my friend,” said the giant, “M. Fouquet decided, seeing how
slightly built the house was, to give me another lodging, and so they
brought me here.”

“It is the private park, I think, is it not?”

“Yes.”

“Where the rendezvous are made; that park, indeed, which is
so celebrated in some of those mysterious stories about the
superintendent?”

“I don’t know; I have had no rendezvous or heard mysterious stories
myself, but they have authorized me to exercise my muscles, and I take
advantage of the permission by rooting up some of the trees.”

“What for?”

“To keep my hand in, and also to take some birds’ nests; I find it more
convenient than climbing.”

“You are as pastoral as Tyrcis, my dear Porthos.”

“Yes, I like the small eggs; I like them very much better than larger
ones. You have no idea how delicate an _omelette_ is, if made of four
or five hundred eggs of linnets, chaffinches, starlings, blackbirds, and
thrushes.”

“But five hundred eggs is perfectly monstrous!”

“A salad-bowl will hold them easily enough,” said Porthos.

D’Artagnan looked at Porthos admiringly for full five minutes, as if
he had seen him for the first time, while Porthos spread his chest
out joyously and proudly. They remained in this state several minutes,
Porthos smiling, and D’Artagnan looking at him. D’Artagnan was evidently
trying to give the conversation a new turn. “Do you amuse yourself much
here, Porthos?” he asked at last, very likely after he had found out
what he was searching for.

“Not always.”

“I can imagine that; but when you get thoroughly bored, by and by, what
do you intend to do?”

“Oh! I shall not be here for any length of time. Aramis is waiting until
the last bump on my head disappears, in order to present me to the king,
who I am told cannot endure the sight of a bump.”

“Aramis is still in Paris, then?”

“No.”

“Whereabouts is he, then?”

“At Fontainebleau.”

“Alone?”

“With M. Fouquet.”

“Very good. But do you happen to know one thing?”

“No, tell it me, and then I shall know.”

“Well, then, I think Aramis is forgetting you.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Yes; for at Fontainebleau yonder, you must know, they are laughing,
dancing, banqueting, and drawing the corks of M. de Mazarin’s wine in
fine style. Are you aware that they have a ballet every evening there?”

“The deuce they have!”

“I assure you that your dear Aramis is forgetting you.”

“Well, that is not at all unlikely, and I have myself thought so
sometimes.”

“Unless he is playing you a trick, the sly fellow!”

“Oh!”

“You know that Aramis is as sly as a fox.”

“Yes, but to play _me_ a trick--”

“Listen: in the first place, he puts you under a sort of sequestration.”

“He sequestrates me! Do you mean to say I am sequestrated?”

“I think so.”

“I wish you would have the goodness to prove that to me.”

“Nothing easier. Do you ever go out?”

“Never.”

“Do you ever ride on horseback?”

“Never.”

“Are your friends allowed to come and see you?”

“Never.”

“Very well, then; never to go out, never to ride on horseback, never to
be allowed to see your friends, that is called being sequestrated.”

“But why should Aramis sequestrate me?” inquired Porthos.

“Come,” said D’Artagnan, “be frank, Porthos.”

“As gold.”

“It was Aramis who drew the plan of the fortifications at Belle-Isle,
was it not?”

Porthos colored as he said, “Yes; but that was all he did.”

“Exactly, and my own opinion is that it was no very great affair after
all.”

“That is mine, too.”

“Very good; I am delighted we are of the same opinion.”

“He never even came to Belle-Isle,” said Porthos.

“There now, you see.”

“It was I who went to Vannes, as you may have seen.”

“Say rather, as I did see. Well, that is precisely the state of the
case, my dear Porthos. Aramis, who only drew the plans, wishes to pass
himself off as the engineer, whilst you, who, stone by stone, built the
wall, the citadel, and the bastions, he wishes to reduce to the rank of
a mere builder.”

“By builder, you mean mason, perhaps?”

“Mason; the very word.”

“Plasterer, in fact?”

“Hodman?”

“Exactly.”

“Oh, oh! my dear Aramis, you seem to think you are only five and twenty
years of age still.”

“Yes, and that is not all, for he believes you are fifty.”

“I should have amazingly liked to have seen him at work.”

“Yes, indeed.”

“A fellow who has got the gout?”

“Yes.”

“Who has lost three of his teeth?”

“Four.”

“While I, look at mine.” And Porthos, opening his large mouth very wide,
displayed two rows of teeth not quite as white as snow, but even, hard,
and sound as ivory.

“You can hardly believe, Porthos,” said D’Artagnan, “what a fancy the
king has for good teeth. Yours decide me; I will present you to the king
myself.”

“You?”

“Why not? Do you think I have less credit at court than Aramis?”

“Oh, no!”

“Do you think I have the slightest pretensions upon the fortifications
at Belle-Isle?”

“Certainly not.”

“It is your own interest alone which would induce me to do it.”

“I don’t doubt it in the least.”

“Well, I am the intimate friend of the king; and a proof of that is,
that whenever there is anything disagreeable to tell him, it is I who
have to do it.”

“But, dear D’Artagnan, if you present me--”

“Well!”

“Aramis will be angry.”

“With me?”

“No, with _me_.”

“Bah! whether he or I present you, since you are to be presented, what
does it matter?”

“They were going to get me some clothes made.”

“Your own are splendid.”

“Oh! those I had ordered were far more beautiful.”

“Take care: the king likes simplicity.”

“In that case, I will be simple. But what will M. Fouquet say, when he
learns that I have left?”

“Are you a prisoner, then, on parole?”

“No, not quite that. But I promised him I would not leave without
letting him know.”

“Wait a minute, we shall return to that presently. Have you anything to
do here?”

“I, nothing: nothing of any importance, at least.”

“Unless, indeed, you are Aramis’s representative for something of
importance.”

“By no means.”

“What I tell you--pray, understand that--is out of interest for you. I
suppose, for instance, that you are commissioned to send messages and
letters to him?”

“Ah! letters--yes. I send certain letters to him.”

“Where?”

“To Fontainebleau.”

“Have you any letters, then?”

“But--”

“Nay, let me speak. Have you any letters, I say?”

“I have just received one for him.”

“Interesting?”

“I suppose so.”

“You do not read them, then?”

“I am not at all curious,” said Porthos, as he drew out of his pocket
the soldier’s letter which Porthos had not read, but D’Artagnan had.

“Do you know what to do with it?” said D’Artagnan.

“Of course; do as I always do, send it to him.”

“Not so.”

“Why not? Keep it, then?”

“Did they not tell you that this letter was important?”

“Very important.”

“Well, you must take it yourself to Fontainebleau.”

“To Aramis?”

“Yes.”

“Very good.”

“And since the king is there--”

“You will profit by that.”

“I shall profit by the opportunity to present you to the king.”

“Ah! D’Artagnan, there is no one like you for expedients.”

“Therefore, instead of forwarding to our friend any messages, which may
or may not be faithfully delivered, we will ourselves be the bearers of
the letter.”

“I had never even thought of that, and yet it is simple enough.”

“And therefore, because it is urgent, Porthos, we ought to set off at
once.”

“In fact,” said Porthos, “the sooner we set off the less chance there is
of Aramis’s letter being delayed.”

“Porthos, your reasoning is always accurate, and, in your case, logic
seems to serve as an auxiliary to the imagination.”

“Do you think so?” said Porthos.

“It is the result of your hard reading,” replied D’Artagnan. “So come
along, let us be off.”

“But,” said Porthos, “my promise to M. Fouquet?”

“Which?”

“Not to leave Saint-Mande without telling him of it.”

“Ah! Porthos,” said D’Artagnan, “how very young you still are.”

“In what way?”

“You are going to Fontainebleau, are you not, where you will find M.
Fouquet?”

“Yes.”

“Probably in the king’s palace?”

“Yes,” repeated Porthos, with an air full of majesty.

“Well, you will accost him with these words: ‘M. Fouquet, I have the
honor to inform you that I have just left Saint-Mande.’”

“And,” said Porthos, with the same majestic mien, “seeing me at
Fontainebleau at the king’s, M. Fouquet will not be able to tell me I am
not speaking the truth.”

“My dear Porthos, I was just on the point of opening my lips to make
the same remark, but you anticipate me in everything. Oh! Porthos, how
fortunately you are gifted! Years have made not the slightest impression
on you.”

“Not over-much, certainly.”

“Then there is nothing more to say?”

“I think not.”

“All your scruples are removed?”

“Quite so.”

“In that case I shall carry you off with me.”

“Exactly; and I will go and get my horse saddled.”

“You have horses here, then?”

“I have five.”

“You had them sent from Pierrefonds, I suppose?”

“No, M. Fouquet gave them to me.”

“My dear Porthos, we shall not want five horses for two persons;
besides, I have already three in Paris, which would make eight, and that
will be too many.”

“It would not be too many if I had some of my servants here; but, alas!
I have not got them.”

“Do you regret them, then?”

“I regret Mousqueton; I miss Mousqueton.”

“What a good-hearted fellow you are, Porthos,” said D’Artagnan; “but
the best thing you can do is to leave your horses here, as you have left
Mousqueton out yonder.”

“Why so?”

“Because, by and by, it might turn out a very good thing if M. Fouquet
had never given you anything at all.”

“I don’t understand you,” said Porthos.

“It is not necessary you should understand.”

“But yet--”

“I will explain to you later, Porthos.”

“I’ll wager it is some piece of policy or other.”

“And of the most subtle character,” returned D’Artagnan.

Porthos nodded his head at this word policy; then, after a moment’s
reflection, he added, “I confess, D’Artagnan, that I am no politician.”

“I know that well.”

“Oh! no one knows what you told me yourself, you, the bravest of the
brave.”

“What did I tell you, Porthos?”

“That every man has his day. You told me so, and I have experienced it
myself. There are certain days when one feels less pleasure than others
in exposing one’s self to a bullet or a sword-thrust.”

“Exactly my own idea.”

“And mine, too, although I can hardly believe in blows or thrusts that
kill outright.”

“The deuce! and yet you have killed a few in your time.”

“Yes; but I have never been killed.”

“Your reason is a very good one.”

“Therefore, I do not believe I shall ever die from a thrust of a sword
or a gun-shot.”

“In that case, then, you are afraid of nothing. Ah! water, perhaps?”

“Oh! I swim like an otter.”

“Of a quartan fever, then?”

“I have never had one yet, and I don’t believe I ever shall; but there
is one thing I will admit,” and Porthos dropped his voice.

“What is that?” asked D’Artagnan, adopting the same tone of voice as
Porthos.

“I must confess,” repeated Porthos, “that I am horribly afraid of
politics.”

“Ah, bah!” exclaimed D’Artagnan.

“Upon my word, it’s true,” said Porthos, in a stentorian voice. “I have
seen his eminence Monsieur le Cardinal de Richelieu, and his eminence
Monsieur le Cardinal de Mazarin; the one was a red politician, the other
a black politician; I never felt very much more satisfied with the one
than with the other; the first struck off the heads of M. de Marillac,
M. de Thou, M. de Cinq-Mars, M. Chalais, M. de Bouteville, and M. de
Montmorency; the second got a whole crowd of Frondeurs cut in pieces,
and we belonged to them.”

“On the contrary, we did not belong to them,” said D’Artagnan.

“Oh! indeed, yes; for if I unsheathed my sword for the cardinal, I
struck it for the king.”

“My good Porthos!”

“Well, I have done. My dread of politics is such, that if there is any
question of politics in the matter, I should greatly prefer to return to
Pierrefonds.”

“You would be quite right, if that were the case. But with me, my dear
Porthos, no politics at all, that is quite clear. You have labored hard
in fortifying Belle-Isle; the king wished to know the name of the clever
engineer under whose directions the works were carried out; you are
modest, as all men of true genius are; perhaps Aramis wishes to put you
under a bushel. But I happen to seize hold of you; I make it known
who you are; I produce you; the king rewards you; and that is the only
policy I have to do with.”

“And the only one I will have to do with either,” said Porthos, holding
out his hand to D’Artagnan.

But D’Artagnan knew Porthos’s grasp; he knew that, once imprisoned
within the baron’s five fingers, no hand ever left it without being
half-crushed. He therefore held out, not his hand, but his fist, and
Porthos did not even perceive the difference. The servants talked a
little with each other in an undertone, and whispered a few words,
which D’Artagnan understood, but which he took very good care not to let
Porthos understand. “Our friend,” he said to himself, “was really and
truly Aramis’s prisoner. Let us now see what the result will be of the
liberation of the captive.”



Chapter IV. The Rat and the Cheese.

D’Artagnan and Porthos returned on foot, as D’Artagnan had set out.
When D’Artagnan, as he entered the shop of the Pilon d’Or, announced to
Planchet that M. du Vallon would be one of the privileged travelers, and
as the plume in Porthos’s hat made the wooden candles suspended over the
front jingle together, a melancholy presentiment seemed to eclipse the
delight Planchet had promised himself for the morrow. But the grocer
had a heart of gold, ever mindful of the good old times--a trait that
carries youth into old age. So Planchet, notwithstanding a sort of
internal shiver, checked as soon as experienced, received Porthos with
respect, mingled with the tenderest cordiality. Porthos, who was a
little cold and stiff in his manners at first, on account of the social
difference existing at that period between a baron and a grocer, soon
began to soften when he perceived so much good-feeling and so many kind
attentions in Planchet. He was particularly touched by the liberty which
was permitted him to plunge his great palms into the boxes of dried
fruits and preserves, into the sacks of nuts and almonds, and into the
drawers full of sweetmeats. So that, notwithstanding Planchet’s pressing
invitations to go upstairs to the _entresol_, he chose as his favorite
seat, during the evening which he had to spend at Planchet’s house, the
shop itself, where his fingers could always fish up whatever his nose
detected. The delicious figs from Provence, filberts from the forest,
Tours plums, were subjects of his uninterrupted attention for five
consecutive hours. His teeth, like millstones, cracked heaps of nuts,
the shells of which were scattered all over the floor, where they were
trampled by every one who went in and out of the shop; Porthos pulled
from the stalk with his lips, at one mouthful, bunches of the rich
Muscatel raisins with their beautiful bloom, half a pound of which
passed at one gulp from his mouth to his stomach. In one of the corners
of the shop, Planchet’s assistants, huddled together, looked at each
other without venturing to open their lips. They did not know who
Porthos was, for they had never seen him before. The race of those
Titans who had worn the cuirasses of Hugh Capet, Philip Augustus,
and Francis I. had already begun to disappear. They could hardly help
thinking he might be the ogre of the fairy tale, who was going to turn
the whole contents of Planchet’s shop into his insatiable stomach, and
that, too, without in the slightest degree displacing the barrels and
chests that were in it. Cracking, munching, chewing, nibbling, sucking,
and swallowing, Porthos occasionally said to the grocer:

“You do a very good business here, friend Planchet.”

“He will very soon have none at all to do, if this sort of thing
continues,” grumbled the foreman, who had Planchet’s word that he should
be his successor. In the midst of his despair, he approached Porthos,
who blocked up the whole of the passage leading from the back shop to
the shop itself. He hoped that Porthos would rise and that this movement
would distract his devouring ideas.

“What do you want, my man?” asked Porthos, affably.

“I should like to pass you, monsieur, if it is not troubling you too
much.”

“Very well,” said Porthos, “it does not trouble me in the least.”

At the same moment he took hold of the young fellow by the waistband,
lifted him off the ground, and placed him very gently on the other
side, smiling all the while with the same affable expression. As soon as
Porthos had placed him on the ground, the lad’s legs so shook under him
that he fell back upon some sacks of corks. But noticing the giant’s
gentleness of manner, he ventured again, and said:

“Ah, monsieur! pray be careful.”

“What about?” inquired Porthos.

“You are positively putting a fiery furnace into your body.”

“How is that, my good fellow?”

“All those things are very heating to the system!”

“Which?”

“Raisins, nuts, and almonds.”

“Yes; but if raisins, nuts, and almonds are heating--”

“There is no doubt at all of it, monsieur.”

“Honey is very cooling,” said Porthos, stretching out his hand toward
a small barrel of honey which was open, and he plunged the scoop with
which the wants of the customers were supplied into it, and swallowed a
good half-pound at one gulp.

“I must trouble you for some water now, my man,” said Porthos.

“In a pail, monsieur?” asked the lad, simply.

“No, in a water-bottle; that will be quite enough;” and raising the
bottle to his mouth, as a trumpeter does his trumpet, he emptied the
bottle at a single draught.

Planchet was agitated in every fibre of propriety and self-esteem.
However, a worthy representative of the hospitality which prevailed in
early days, he feigned to be talking very earnestly with D’Artagnan, and
incessantly repeated:--“Ah! monsieur, what a happiness! what an honor!”

“What time shall we have supper, Planchet?” inquired Porthos, “I feel
hungry.”

The foreman clasped his hands together. The two others got under the
counters, fearing Porthos might have a taste for human flesh.

“We shall only take a sort of snack here,” said D’Artagnan; “and when we
get to Planchet’s country-seat, we will have supper.”

“Ah, ah! so we are going to your country-house, Planchet,” said Porthos;
“so much the better.”

“You overwhelm me, monsieur le baron.”

The “monsieur le baron” had a great effect upon the men, who detected
a personage of the highest quality in an appetite of that kind. This
title, too, reassured them. They had never heard that an ogre was ever
called “monsieur le baron”.

“I will take a few biscuits to eat on the road,” said Porthos,
carelessly; and he emptied a whole jar of aniseed biscuits into the huge
pocket of his doublet.

“My shop is saved!” exclaimed Planchet.

“Yes, as the cheese was,” whispered the foreman.

“What cheese?”

“The Dutch cheese, inside which a rat had made his way, and we found
only the rind left.”

Planchet looked all round his shop, and observing the different articles
which had escaped Porthos’s teeth, he found the comparison somewhat
exaggerated. The foreman, who remarked what was passing in his master’s
mind, said, “Take care; he is not gone yet.”

“Have you any fruit here?” said Porthos, as he went upstairs to the
_entresol_, where it had just been announced that some refreshment was
prepared.

“Alas!” thought the grocer, addressing a look at D’Artagnan full of
entreaty, which the latter half understood.

As soon as they had finished eating they set off. It was late when the
three riders, who had left Paris about six in the evening, arrived at
Fontainebleau. The journey passed very agreeably. Porthos took a fancy
to Planchet’s society, because the latter was very respectful in his
manners, and seemed delighted to talk to him about his meadows, his
woods, and his rabbit-warrens. Porthos had all the taste and pride of
a landed proprietor. When D’Artagnan saw his two companions in earnest
conversation, he took the opposite side of the road, and letting his
bridle drop upon his horse’s neck, separated himself from the whole
world, as he had done from Porthos and from Planchet. The moon shone
softly through the foliage of the forest. The breezes of the open
country rose deliciously perfumed to the horse’s nostrils, and they
snorted and pranced along delightedly. Porthos and Planchet began to
talk about hay-crops. Planchet admitted to Porthos that in the advanced
years of his life, he had certainly neglected agricultural pursuits
for commerce, but that his childhood had been passed in Picardy in the
beautiful meadows where the grass grew as high as the knees, and where
he had played under the green apple-trees covered with red-cheeked
fruit; he went on to say, that he had solemnly promised himself that as
soon as he should have made his fortune, he would return to nature, and
end his days, as he had begun them, as near as he possibly could to the
earth itself, where all men must sleep at last.

“Eh, eh!” said Porthos; “in that case, my dear Monsieur Planchet, your
retirement is not far distant.”

“How so?”

“Why, you seem to be in the way of making your fortune very soon.”

“Well, we are getting on pretty well, I must admit,” replied Planchet.

“Come, tell me what is the extent of your ambition, and what is the
amount you intend to retire upon?”

“There is one circumstance, monsieur,” said Planchet, without answering
the question, “which occasions me a good deal of anxiety.”

“What is it?” inquired Porthos, looking all round him as if in search of
the circumstance that annoyed Planchet, and desirous of freeing him from
it.

“Why, formerly,” said the grocer, “you used to call me Planchet quite
short, and you would have spoken to me then in a much more familiar
manner than you do now.”

“Certainly, certainly, I should have said so formerly,” replied the
good-natured Porthos, with an embarrassment full of delicacy; “but
formerly--”

“Formerly I was M. d’Artagnan’s lackey; is not that what you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Well if I am not quite his lackey, I am as much as ever I was his
devoted servant; and more than that, since that time--”

“Well, Planchet?”

“Since that time, I have had the honor of being in partnership with
him.”

“Oh, oh!” said Porthos. “What, has D’Artagnan gone into the grocery
business?”

“No, no,” said D’Artagnan, whom these words had drawn out of his
reverie, and who entered into the conversation with that readiness and
rapidity which distinguished every operation of his mind and body. “It
was not D’Artagnan who entered into the grocery business, but Planchet
who entered into a political affair with me.”

“Yes,” said Planchet, with mingled pride and satisfaction, “we
transacted a little business which brought me in a hundred thousand
francs and M. d’Artagnan two hundred thousand.”

“Oh, oh!” said Porthos, with admiration.

“So that, monsieur le baron,” continued the grocer, “I again beg you to
be kind enough to call me Planchet, as you used to do; and to speak
to me as familiarly as in old times. You cannot possibly imagine the
pleasure it would give me.”

“If that be the case, my dear Planchet, I will do so, certainly,”
 replied Porthos. And as he was quite close to Planchet, he raised
his hand, as if to strike him on the shoulder, in token of friendly
cordiality; but a fortunate movement of the horse made him miss his aim,
so that his hand fell on the crupper of Planchet’s horse, instead; which
made the animal’s legs almost give way.

D’Artagnan burst out laughing, as he said, “Take care, Planchet; for
if Porthos begins to like you so much, he will caress you, and if he
caresses you he will knock you as flat as a pancake. Porthos is still as
strong as ever, you know.”

“Oh,” said Planchet, “Mousqueton is not dead, and yet monsieur le baron
is very fond of him.”

“Certainly,” said Porthos, with a sigh which made all the three horses
rear; “and I was only saying, this very morning, to D’Artagnan, how much
I regretted him. But tell me, Planchet?”

“Thank you, monsieur le baron, thank you.”

“Good lad, good lad! How many acres of park have you got?”

“Of park?”

“Yes; we will reckon up the meadows presently, and the woods
afterwards.”

“Whereabouts, monsieur?” “At your chateau.”

“Oh, monsieur le baron, I have neither chateau, nor park, nor meadows,
nor woods.”

“What have you got, then?” inquired Porthos, “and why do you call it a
country-seat?”

“I did not call it a country-seat, monsieur le baron,” replied Planchet,
somewhat humiliated, “but a country-box.”

“Ah, ah! I understand. You are modest.”

“No, monsieur le baron, I speak the plain truth. I have rooms for a
couple of friends, that’s all.”

“But in that case, whereabouts do your friends walk?”

“In the first place, they can walk about the king’s forest, which is
very beautiful.”

“Yes, I know the forest is very fine,” said Porthos; “nearly as
beautiful as my forest at Berry.”

Planchet opened his eyes very wide. “Have you a forest of the same kind
as the forest at Fontainebleau, monsieur le baron?” he stammered out.

“Yes; I have two, indeed, but the one at Berry is my favorite.”

“Why so?” asked Planchet.

“Because I don’t know where it ends; and, also, because it is full of
poachers.”

“How can the poachers make the forest so agreeable to you?”

“Because they hunt my game, and I hunt them--which, in these peaceful
times, is for me a sufficiently pleasing picture of war on a small
scale.”

They had reached this turn of conversation, when Planchet, looking up,
perceived the houses at the commencement of Fontainebleau, the lofty
outlines of which stood out strongly against the misty visage of the
heavens; whilst, rising above the compact and irregularly formed mass
of buildings, the pointed roofs of the chateau were clearly visible, the
slates of which glistened beneath the light of the moon, like the scales
of an immense fish. “Gentlemen,” said Planchet, “I have the honor to
inform you that we have arrived at Fontainebleau.”



Chapter V. Planchet’s Country-House.

The cavaliers looked up, and saw that what Planchet had announced to
them was true. Ten minutes afterwards they were in the street called the
Rue de Lyon, on the opposite side of the hostelry of the Beau Paon.
A high hedge of bushy elders, hawthorn, and wild hops formed an
impenetrable fence, behind which rose a white house, with a high tiled
roof. Two of the windows, which were quite dark, looked upon the street.
Between the two, a small door, with a porch supported by a couple of
pillars, formed the entrance to the house. The door was gained by a step
raised a little from the ground. Planchet got off his horse, as if he
intended to knock at the door; but, on second thoughts, he took hold of
his horse by the bridle, and led it about thirty paces further on, his
two companions following him. He then advanced about another thirty
paces, until he arrived at the door of a cart-house, lighted by an
iron grating; and, lifting up a wooden latch, pushed open one of the
folding-doors. He entered first, leading his horse after him by the
bridle, into a small courtyard, where an odor met them which revealed
their close vicinity to a stable. “That smells all right,” said Porthos,
loudly, getting off his horse, “and I almost begin to think I am near my
own cows at Pierrefonds.”

“I have only one cow,” Planchet hastened to say modestly.

“And I have thirty,” said Porthos; “or rather, I don’t exactly know how
many I have.”

When the two cavaliers had entered, Planchet fastened the door behind
them. In the meantime, D’Artagnan, who had dismounted with his usual
agility, inhaled the fresh perfumed air with the delight a Parisian
feels at the sight of green fields and fresh foliage, plucked a piece
of honeysuckle with one hand, and of sweet-briar with the other. Porthos
clawed hold of some peas which were twined round poles stuck into
the ground, and ate, or rather browsed upon them, shells and all: and
Planchet was busily engaged trying to wake up an old and infirm peasant,
who was fast asleep in a shed, lying on a bed of moss, and dressed in
an old stable suit of clothes. The peasant, recognizing Planchet, called
him “the master,” to the grocer’s great satisfaction. “Stable the horses
well, old fellow, and you shall have something good for yourself,” said
Planchet.

“Yes, yes; fine animals they are too,” said the peasant. “Oh! they shall
have as much as they like.”

“Gently, gently, my man,” said D’Artagnan, “we are getting on a little
too fast. A few oats and a good bed--nothing more.”

“Some bran and water for my horse,” said Porthos, “for it is very warm,
I think.”

“Don’t be afraid, gentlemen,” replied Planchet; “Daddy Celestin is an
old gendarme, who fought at Ivry. He knows all about horses; so come
into the house.” And he led the way along a well-sheltered walk, which
crossed a kitchen-garden, then a small paddock, and came out into a
little garden behind the house, the principal front of which, as we have
already noticed, faced the street. As they approached, they could
see, through two open windows on the ground floor, which led into a
sitting-room, the interior of Planchet’s residence. This room, softly
lighted by a lamp placed on the table, seemed, from the end of the
garden, like a smiling image of repose, comfort, and happiness. In every
direction where the rays of light fell, whether upon a piece of old
china, or upon an article of furniture shining from excessive neatness,
or upon the weapons hanging against the wall, the soft light was softly
reflected; and its rays seemed to linger everywhere upon something or
another, agreeable to the eye. The lamp which lighted the room, whilst
the foliage of jasmine and climbing roses hung in masses from the
window-frames, splendidly illuminated a damask table-cloth as white as
snow. The table was laid for two persons. Amber-colored wine sparkled
in a long cut-glass bottle; and a large jug of blue china, with a silver
lid, was filled with foaming cider. Near the table, in a high-backed
armchair, reclined, fast asleep, a woman of about thirty years of age,
her face the very picture of health and freshness. Upon her knees lay
a large cat, with her paws folded under her, and her eyes half-closed,
purring in that significant manner which, according to feline habits,
indicates perfect contentment. The two friends paused before the window
in complete amazement, while Planchet, perceiving their astonishment,
was in no little degree secretly delighted at it.

“Ah! Planchet, you rascal,” said D’Artagnan, “I now understand your
absences.”

“Oh, oh! there is some white linen!” said Porthos, in his turn, in a
voice of thunder. At the sound of this gigantic voice, the cat took
flight, the housekeeper woke up with a start, and Planchet, assuming
a gracious air, introduced his two companions into the room, where the
table was already laid.

“Permit me, my dear,” he said, “to present to you Monsieur le Chevalier
d’Artagnan, my patron.” D’Artagnan took the lady’s hand in his in the
most courteous manner, and with precisely the same chivalrous air as he
would have taken Madame’s.

“Monsieur le Baron du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds,” added
Planchet. Porthos bowed with a reverence which Anne of Austria would
have approved of.

It was then Planchet’s turn, and he unhesitatingly embraced the lady
in question, not, however, until he had made a sign as if requesting
D’Artagnan’s and Porthos’s permission, a permission as a matter of
course frankly conceded. D’Artagnan complimented Planchet, and said,
“You are indeed a man who knows how to make life agreeable.”

“Life, monsieur,” said Planchet, laughing, “is capital which a man ought
to invest as sensibly as he possibly can.”

“And you get very good interest for yours,” said Porthos, with a burst
of laughter like a peal of thunder.

Planchet turned to his housekeeper. “You have before you,” he said to
her, “the two gentlemen who influenced the greatest, gayest, grandest
portion of my life. I have spoken to you about them both very
frequently.”

“And about two others as well,” said the lady, with a very decided
Flemish accent.

“Madame is Dutch?” inquired D’Artagnan. Porthos curled his mustache, a
circumstance which was not lost upon D’Artagnan, who noticed everything.

“I am from Antwerp,” said the lady.

“And her name is Madame Getcher,” said Planchet.

“You should not call her madame,” said D’Artagnan.

“Why not?” asked Planchet.

“Because it would make her seem older every time you call her so.”

“Well, I call her Truchen.”

“And a very pretty name too,” said Porthos.

“Truchen,” said Planchet, “came to me from Flanders with her virtue and
two thousand florins. She ran away from a brute of a husband who was in
the habit of beating her. Being myself a Picard born, I was always
very fond of the Artesian women, and it is only a step from Artois to
Flanders; she came crying bitterly to her godfather, my predecessor
in the Rue des Lombards; she placed her two thousand florins in my
establishment, which I have turned to very good account, and which have
brought her in ten thousand.”

“Bravo, Planchet.”

“She is free and well off; she has a cow, a maid servant and old
Celestin at her orders; she mends my linen, knits my winter stockings;
she only sees me every fortnight, and seems to make herself in all
things tolerably happy.

“And indeed, gentlemen, I _am_ very happy and comfortable,” said
Truchen, with perfect ingenuousness.

Porthos began to curl the other side of his mustache. “The deuce,”
 thought D’Artagnan, “can Porthos have any intentions in that quarter?”

In the meantime Truchen had set her cook to work, had laid the table for
two more, and covered it with every possible delicacy that could convert
a light supper into a substantial meal, a meal into a regular feast.
Fresh butter, salt beef, anchovies, tunny, a shopful of Planchet’s
commodities, fowls, vegetables, salad, fish from the pond and the
river, game from the forest--all the produce, in fact, of the province.
Moreover, Planchet returned from the cellar, laden with ten bottles of
wine, the glass of which could hardly be seen for the thick coating of
dust which covered them. Porthos’s heart began to expand as he said, “I
am hungry,” and he sat himself beside Madame Truchen, whom he looked at
in the most killing manner. D’Artagnan seated himself on the other side
of her, while Planchet, discreetly and full of delight, took his seat
opposite.

“Do not trouble yourselves,” he said, “if Truchen should leave the
table now and then during supper; for she will have to look after your
bedrooms.”

In fact, the housekeeper made her escape quite frequently, and they
could hear, on the first floor above them, the creaking of the wooden
bedsteads and the rolling of the castors on the floor. While this
was going on, the three men, Porthos especially, ate and drank
gloriously,--it was wonderful to see them. The ten full bottles were ten
empty ones by the time Truchen returned with the cheese. D’Artagnan
still preserved his dignity and self-possession, but Porthos had lost
a portion of his; and the mirth soon began to grow somewhat uproarious.
D’Artagnan recommended a new descent into the cellar, and, as Planchet
no longer walked with the steadiness of a well-trained foot-soldier,
the captain of the musketeers proposed to accompany him. They set off,
humming songs wild enough to frighten anybody who might be listening.
Truchen remained behind at table with Porthos. While the two
wine-bibbers were looking behind the firewood for what they wanted, a
sharp report was heard like the impact of a pair of lips on a lady’s
cheek.

“Porthos fancies himself at La Rochelle,” thought D’Artagnan, as they
returned freighted with bottles. Planchet was singing so loudly that
he was incapable of noticing anything. D’Artagnan, whom nothing ever
escaped, remarked how much redder Truchen’s left cheek was than her
right. Porthos was sitting on Truchen’s left, and was curling with both
his hands both sides of his mustache at once, and Truchen was looking at
him with a most bewitching smile. The sparkling wine of Anjou very soon
produced a remarkable effect upon the three companions. D’Artagnan had
hardly strength enough left to take a candlestick to light Planchet up
his own staircase. Planchet was pulling Porthos along, who was following
Truchen, who was herself jovial enough. It was D’Artagnan who found out
the rooms and the beds. Porthos threw himself into the one destined for
him, after his friend had undressed him. D’Artagnan got into his own
bed, saying to himself, “_Mordioux!_ I had made up my mind never to
touch that light-colored wine, which brings my early camp days back
again. Fie! fie! if my musketeers were only to see their captain in such
a state.” And drawing the curtains of his bed, he added, “Fortunately
enough, though, they will not see me.”

“The country is very amusing,” said Porthos, stretching out his legs,
which passed through the wooden footboard, and made a tremendous
crash, of which, however, no one in the house was capable of taking
the slightest notice. By two o’clock in the morning every one was fast
asleep.



Chapter VI. Showing What Could Be Seen from Planchet’s House.

The next morning found the three heroes sleeping soundly. Truchen had
closed the outside blinds to keep the first rays of the sun from the
leaden-lidded eyes of her guests, like a kind, good housekeeper. It
was still perfectly dark, then, beneath Porthos’s curtains and under
Planchet’s canopy, when D’Artagnan, awakened by an indiscreet ray of
light which made its way through a peek-hole in the shutters, jumped
hastily out of bed, as if he wished to be the first at a forlorn hope.
He took by assault Porthos’s room, which was next to his own. The worthy
Porthos was sleeping with a noise like distant thunder; in the dim
obscurity of the room his gigantic frame was prominently displayed, and
his swollen fist hung down outside the bed upon the carpet. D’Artagnan
awoke Porthos, who rubbed his eyes in a tolerably good humor. In the
meantime Planchet was dressing himself, and met at their bedroom doors
his two guests, who were still somewhat unsteady from their previous
evening’s entertainment. Although it was yet very early, the whole
household was already up. The cook was mercilessly slaughtering in
the poultry-yard; Celestin was gathering white cherries in the garden.
Porthos, brisk and lively as ever, held out his hand to Planchet’s, and
D’Artagnan requested permission to embrace Madame Truchen. The latter,
to show that she bore no ill-will, approached Porthos, upon whom she
conferred the same favor. Porthos embraced Madame Truchen, heaving an
enormous sigh. Planchet took both his friends by the hand.

“I am going to show you over the house,” he said; “when we arrived last
night it was as dark as an oven, and we were unable to see anything;
but in broad daylight, everything looks different, and you will be
satisfied, I hope.”

“If we begin by the view you have here,” said D’Artagnan, “that charms
me beyond everything; I have always lived in royal mansions, you know,
and royal personages have tolerably sound ideas upon the selection of
points of view.”

“I am a great stickler for a good view myself,” said Porthos. “At my
Chateau de Pierrefonds, I have had four avenues laid out, and at the
end of each is a landscape of an altogether different character from the
others.”

“You shall see _my_ prospect,” said Planchet; and he led his two guests
to a window.

“Ah!” said D’Artagnan, “this is the Rue de Lyon.”

“Yes, I have two windows on this side, a paltry, insignificant view,
for there is always that bustling and noisy inn, which is a very
disagreeable neighbor. I had four windows here, but I bricked up two.”

“Let us go on,” said D’Artagnan.

They entered a corridor leading to the bedrooms, and Planchet pushed
open the outside blinds.

“Hollo! what is that out yonder?” said Porthos.

“The forest,” said Planchet. “It is the horizon,--a thick line of green,
which is yellow in the spring, green in the summer, red in the autumn,
and white in the winter.”

“All very well, but it is like a curtain, which prevents one seeing a
greater distance.”

“Yes,” said Planchet; “still, one can see, at all events, everything
that intervenes.”

“Ah, the open country,” said Porthos. “But what is that I see out
there,--crosses and stones?”

“Ah, that is the cemetery,” exclaimed D’Artagnan.

“Precisely,” said Planchet; “I assure you it is very curious. Hardly a
day passes that some one is not buried there; for Fontainebleau is by no
means an inconsiderable place. Sometimes we see young girls clothed in
white carrying banners; at others, some of the town-council, or rich
citizens, with choristers and all the parish authorities; and then, too,
we see some of the officers of the king’s household.”

“I should not like that,” said Porthos.

“There is not much amusement in it, at all events,” said D’Artagnan.

“I assure you it encourages religious thoughts,” replied Planchet.

“Oh, I don’t deny that.”

“But,” continued Planchet, “we must all die one day or another, and
I once met with a maxim somewhere which I have remembered, that the
thought of death is a thought that will do us all good.”

“I am far from saying the contrary,” said Porthos.

“But,” objected D’Artagnan, “the thought of green fields, flowers,
rivers, blue horizons, extensive and boundless plains, is not likely to
do us good.”

“If I had any, I should be far from rejecting them,” said Planchet; “but
possessing only this little cemetery, full of flowers, so moss-grown,
shady, and quiet, I am contented with it, and I think of those who live
in town, in the Rue des Lombards, for instance, and who have to listen
to the rumbling of a couple of thousand vehicles every day, and to
the soulless tramp, tramp, tramp of a hundred and fifty thousand
foot-passengers.”

“But living,” said Porthos; “living, remember that.”

“That is exactly the reason,” said Planchet, timidly, “why I feel it
does me good to contemplate a few dead.”

“Upon my word,” said D’Artagnan, “that fellow Planchet is born a
philosopher as well as a grocer.”

“Monsieur,” said Planchet, “I am one of those good-humored sort of men
whom Heaven created for the purpose of living a certain span of days,
and of considering all good they meet with during their transitory stay
on earth.”

D’Artagnan sat down close to the window, and as there seemed to be
something substantial in Planchet’s philosophy, he mused over it.

“Ah, ah!” exclaimed Planchet, “if I am not mistaken, we are going to
have a representation now, for I think I heard something like chanting.”

“Yes,” said D’Artagnan, “I hear singing too.”

“Oh, it is only a burial of a very poor description,” said Planchet,
disdainfully; “the officiating priest, the beadle, and only one
chorister boy, nothing more. You observe, messieurs, that the defunct
lady or gentleman could not have been of very high rank.”

“No; no one seems to be following the coffin.”

“Yes,” said Porthos; “I see a man.”

“You are right; a man wrapped in a cloak,” said D’Artagnan.

“It’s not worth looking at,” said Planchet.

“I find it interesting,” said D’Artagnan, leaning on the window-sill.

“Come, come, you are beginning to take a fancy to the place already,”
 said Planchet, delightedly; “it is exactly my own case. I was so
melancholy at first that I could do nothing but make the sign of the
cross all day, and the chants were like so many nails being driven into
my head; but now, they lull me to sleep, and no bird I have ever seen
or heard can sing better than those which are to be met with in this
cemetery.”

“Well,” said Porthos, “this is beginning to get a little dull for me,
and I prefer going downstairs.”

Planchet with one bound was beside his guest, whom he offered to lead
into the garden.

“What!” said Porthos to D’Artagnan, as he turned round, “are you going
to remain here?”

“Yes, I will join you presently.”

“Well, M. D’Artagnan is right, after all,” said Planchet: “are they
beginning to bury yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Ah! yes, the grave-digger is waiting until the cords are fastened round
the bier. But, see, a woman has just entered the cemetery at the other
end.”

“Yes, yes, my dear Planchet,” said D’Artagnan, quickly, “leave me,
leave me; I feel I am beginning already to be much comforted by my
meditations, so do not interrupt me.”

Planchet left, and D’Artagnan remained, devouring with his eager gaze
from behind the half-closed blinds what was taking place just before
him. The two bearers of the corpse had unfastened the straps by which
they carried the litter, and were letting their burden glide gently into
the open grave. At a few paces distant, the man with the cloak wrapped
round him, the only spectator of this melancholy scene, was leaning
with his back against a large cypress-tree, and kept his face and person
entirely concealed from the grave-diggers and the priests; the corpse
was buried in five minutes. The grave having been filled up, the priests
turned away, and the grave-digger having addressed a few words to them,
followed them as they moved away. The man in the mantle bowed as they
passed him, and put a piece of gold into the grave-digger’s hand.

“_Mordioux!_” murmured D’Artagnan; “it is Aramis himself.”

Aramis, in fact, remained alone, on that side at least; for hardly had
he turned his head when a woman’s footsteps, and the rustling of her
dress, were heard in the path close to him. He immediately turned round,
and took off his hat with the most ceremonious respect; he led the lady
under the shelter of some walnut and lime trees, which overshadowed a
magnificent tomb.

“Ah! who would have thought it,” said D’Artagnan; “the bishop of
Vannes at a rendezvous! He is still the same Abbe Aramis as he was
at Noisy-le-Sec. Yes,” he added, after a pause; “but as it is in a
cemetery, the rendezvous is sacred.” But he almost laughed.

The conversation lasted for fully half an hour. D’Artagnan could not see
the lady’s face, for she kept her back turned towards him; but he saw
perfectly well, by the erect attitude of both the speakers, by their
gestures, by the measured and careful manner with which they glanced
at each other, either by way of attack or defense, that they must be
conversing about any other subject than of love. At the end of the
conversation the lady rose, and bowed profoundly to Aramis.

“Oh, oh,” said D’Artagnan; “this rendezvous finishes like one of a very
tender nature though. The cavalier kneels at the beginning, the
young lady by and by gets tamed down, and then it is she who has to
supplicate. Who is this lady? I would give anything to ascertain.”

This seemed impossible, however, for Aramis was the first to leave;
the lady carefully concealed her head and face, and then immediately
departed. D’Artagnan could hold out no longer; he ran to the window
which looked out on the Rue de Lyon, and saw Aramis entering the inn.
The lady was proceeding in quite an opposite direction, and seemed, in
fact, to be about to rejoin an equipage, consisting of two led horses
and a carriage, which he could see standing close to the borders of
the forest. She was walking slowly, her head bent down, absorbed in the
deepest meditation.

“_Mordioux! Mordioux!_ I must and will learn who that woman is,” said
the musketeer again; and then, without further deliberation, he set off
in pursuit of her. As he was going along, he tried to think how he could
possibly contrive to make her raise her veil. “She is not young,” he
said, “and is a woman of high rank in society. I ought to know that
figure and peculiar style of walk.” As he ran, the sound of his spurs
and of his boots upon the hard ground of the street made a strange
jingling noise; a fortunate circumstance in itself, which he was far
from reckoning upon. The noise disturbed the lady; she seemed to fancy
she was being either followed or pursued, which was indeed the case, and
turned round. D’Artagnan started as if he had received a charge of small
shot in his legs, and then turning suddenly round as if he were going
back the same way he had come, he murmured, “Madame de Chevreuse!”
 D’Artagnan would not go home until he had learnt everything. He asked
Celestin to inquire of the grave-digger whose body it was they had
buried that morning.

“A poor Franciscan mendicant friar,” replied the latter, “who had not
even a dog to love him in this world, and to accompany him to his last
resting-place.”

“If that were really the case,” thought D’Artagnan, “we should not
have found Aramis present at his funeral. The bishop of Vannes is not
precisely a dog as far as devotion goes: his scent, however, is quite as
keen, I admit.”



Chapter VII. How Porthos, Truchen, and Planchet Parted with Each Other
on Friendly Terms, Thanks to D’Artagnan.

There was good living in Planchet’s house. Porthos broke a ladder and
two cherry-trees, stripped the raspberry-bushes, and was only unable to
succeed in reaching the strawberry-beds on account, as he said, of his
belt. Truchen, who had become quite sociable with the giant, said that
it was not the belt so much as his corporation; and Porthos, in a state
of the highest delight, embraced Truchen, who gathered him a pailful of
the strawberries, and made him eat them out of her hands. D’Artagnan,
who arrived in the midst of these little innocent flirtations, scolded
Porthos for his indolence, and silently pitied Planchet. Porthos
breakfasted with a very good appetite, and when he had finished, he
said, looking at Truchen, “I could make myself very happy here.”
 Truchen smiled at his remark, and so did Planchet, but not without
embarrassment.

D’Artagnan then addressed Porthos: “You must not let the delights of
Capua make you forget the real object of our journey to Fontainebleau.”

“My presentation to the king?”

“Certainly. I am going to take a turn in the town to get everything
ready for that. Do not think of leaving the house, I beg.”

“Oh, no!” exclaimed Porthos.

Planchet looked at D’Artagnan nervously.

“Will you be away long?” he inquired.

“No, my friend; and this very evening I will release you from two
troublesome guests.”

“Oh! Monsieur d’Artagnan! can you say--”

“No, no; you are a noble-hearted fellow, but your house is very small.
Such a house, with half a dozen acres of land, would be fit for a king,
and make him very happy, too. But you were not born a great lord.”

“No more was M. Porthos,” murmured Planchet.

“But he has become so, my good fellow; his income has been a hundred
thousand francs a year for the last twenty years, and for the last fifty
years Porthos has been the owner of a couple of fists and a backbone,
which are not to be matched throughout the whole realm of France.
Porthos is a man of the very greatest consequence compared to you,
and... well, I need say no more, for I know you are an intelligent
fellow.”

“No, no, monsieur, explain what you mean.”

“Look at your orchard, how stripped it is, how empty your larder, your
bedstead broken, your cellar almost exhausted, look too... at Madame
Truchen--”

“Oh! my goodness gracious!” said Planchet.

“Madame Truchen is an excellent person,” continued D’Artagnan, “but
keep her for yourself, do you understand?” and he slapped him on the
shoulder.

Planchet at this moment perceived Porthos and Truchen sitting close
together in an arbor; Truchen, with a grace of manner peculiarly
Flemish, was making a pair of earrings for Porthos out of a double
cherry, while Porthos was laughing as amorously as Samson in the company
of Delilah. Planchet pressed D’Artagnan’s hand, and ran towards the
arbor. We must do Porthos the justice to say that he did not move as
they approached, and, very likely, he did not think he was doing any
harm. Nor indeed did Truchen move either, which rather put Planchet out;
but he, too, had been so accustomed to see fashionable folk in his shop,
that he found no difficulty in putting a good countenance on what seemed
disagreeable or rude. Planchet seized Porthos by the arm, and proposed
to go and look at the horses, but Porthos pretended he was tired.
Planchet then suggested that the Baron du Vallon should taste some
noyeau of his own manufacture, which was not to be equaled anywhere; an
offer the baron immediately accepted; and, in this way, Planchet managed
to engage his enemy’s attention during the whole of the day, by dint of
sacrificing his cellar, in preference to his _amour propre_. Two hours
afterwards D’Artagnan returned.

“Everything is arranged,” he said; “I saw his majesty at the very moment
he was setting off for the chase; the king expects us this evening.”

“The king expects _me!_” cried Porthos, drawing himself up. It is a sad
thing to have to confess, but a man’s heart is like an ocean billow;
for, from that very moment Porthos ceased to look at Madame Truchen
in that touching manner which had so softened her heart. Planchet
encouraged these ambitious leanings as best as he could. He talked over,
or rather gave exaggerated accounts of all the splendors of the last
reign, its battles, sieges, and grand court ceremonies. He spoke of the
luxurious display which the English made; the prizes the three brave
companions carried off; and how D’Artagnan, who at the beginning had
been the humblest of the four, finished by becoming the leader. He fired
Porthos with a generous feeling of enthusiasm by reminding him of his
early youth now passed away; he boasted as much as he could of the moral
life this great lord had led, and how religiously he respected the ties
of friendship; he was eloquent, and skillful in his choice of subjects.
He tickled Porthos, frightened Truchen, and made D’Artagnan think. At
six o’clock, the musketeer ordered the horses to be brought round, and
told Porthos to get ready. He thanked Planchet for his kind hospitality,
whispered a few words about a post he might succeed in obtaining for
him at court, which immediately raised Planchet in Truchen’s estimation,
where the poor grocer--so good, so generous, so devoted--had become much
lowered ever since the appearance and comparison with him of the two
great gentlemen. Such, however, is a woman’s nature; they are anxious
to possess what they have not got, and disdain it as soon as it is
acquired. After having rendered this service to his friend Planchet,
D’Artagnan said in a low tone of voice to Porthos: “That is a very
beautiful ring you have on your finger.”

“It is worth three hundred pistoles,” said Porthos.

“Madame Truchen will remember you better if you leave her that ring,”
 replied D’Artagnan, a suggestion which Porthos seemed to hesitate to
adopt.

“You think it is not beautiful enough, perhaps,” said the musketeer. “I
understand your feelings; a great lord such as you would not think of
accepting the hospitality of an old servant without paying him most
handsomely for it: but I am sure that Planchet is too good-hearted a
fellow to remember that you have an income of a hundred thousand francs
a year.”

“I have more than half a mind,” said Porthos, flattered by the remark,
“to make Madame Truchen a present of my little farm at Bracieux; it has
twelve acres.”

“It is too much, my good Porthos, too much just at present... Keep it
for a future occasion.” He then took the ring off Porthos’s finger, and
approaching Truchen, said to her:--“Madame, monsieur le baron hardly
knows how to entreat you, out of your regard for him, to accept this
little ring. M. du Vallon is one of the most generous and discreet
men of my acquaintance. He wished to offer you a farm that he has at
Bracieux, but I dissuaded him from it.”

“Oh!” said Truchen, looking eagerly at the diamond.

“Monsieur le baron!” exclaimed Planchet, quite overcome.

“My good friend,” stammered out Porthos, delighted at having been so
well represented by D’Artagnan. These several exclamations, uttered at
the same moment, made quite a pathetic winding-up of a day which might
have finished in a very ridiculous manner. But D’Artagnan was there,
and, on every occasion, wheresoever D’Artagnan exercised any control,
matters ended only just in the very way he wished and willed. There were
general embracings; Truchen, whom the baron’s munificence had restored
to her proper position, very timidly, and blushing all the while,
presented her forehead to the great lord with whom she had been on such
very pretty terms the evening before. Planchet himself was overcome by
a feeling of genuine humility. Still, in the same generosity of
disposition, Porthos would have emptied his pockets into the hands of
the cook and of Celestin; but D’Artagnan stopped him.

“No,” he said, “it is now my turn.” And he gave one pistole to the woman
and two to the man; and the benedictions which were showered down
upon them would have rejoiced the heart of Harpagon himself, and have
rendered even him a prodigal.

D’Artagnan made Planchet lead them to the chateau, and introduced
Porthos into his own apartment, where he arrived safely without having
been perceived by those he was afraid of meeting.



Chapter VIII. The Presentation of Porthos at Court.

At seven o’clock the same evening, the king gave an audience to an
ambassador from the United Provinces, in the grand reception-room. The
audience lasted a quarter of an hour. His majesty afterwards received
those who had been recently presented, together with a few ladies, who
paid their respects first. In one corner of the salon, concealed behind
a column, Porthos and D’Artagnan were conversing together, waiting until
their turn arrived.

“Have you heard the news?” inquired the musketeer of his friend.

“No!”

“Well, look, then.” Porthos raised himself on tiptoe, and saw M. Fouquet
in full court dress, leading Aramis towards the king.

“Aramis!” said Porthos.

“Presented to the king by M. Fouquet.”

“Ah!” ejaculated Porthos.

“For having fortified Belle-Isle,” continued D’Artagnan.

“And I?”

“You--oh, you! as I have already had the honor of telling you, are the
good-natured, kind-hearted Porthos; and so they begged you to take care
of Saint-Mande a little.”

“Ah!” repeated Porthos.

“But, happily, I was there,” said D’Artagnan, “and presently it will be
_my_ turn.”

At this moment Fouquet addressed the king.

“Sire,” he said, “I have a favor to solicit of your majesty. M.
d’Herblay is not ambitious, but he knows when he can be of service. Your
majesty needs a representative at Rome, who would be able to exercise
a powerful influence there; may I request a cardinal’s hat for M.
d’Herblay?” The king started. “I do not often solicit anything of your
majesty,” said Fouquet.

“That is a reason, certainly,” replied the king, who always expressed
any hesitation he might have in that manner, and to which remark there
was nothing to say in reply.

Fouquet and Aramis looked at each other. The king resumed: “M. d’Herblay
can serve us equally well in France; an archbishopric, for instance.”

“Sire,” objected Fouquet, with a grace of manner peculiarly his own,
“your majesty overwhelms M. d’Herblay; the archbishopric may, in your
majesty’s extreme kindness, be conferred in addition to the hat; the one
does not exclude the other.”

The king admired the readiness which he displayed, and smiled, saying:
“D’Artagnan himself could not have answered better.” He had no sooner
pronounced the name than D’Artagnan appeared.

“Did your majesty call me?” he said.

Aramis and Fouquet drew back a step, as if they were about to retire.

“Will your majesty allow me,” said D’Artagnan quickly, as he led forward
Porthos, “to present to your majesty M. le Baron du Vallon, one of the
bravest gentlemen of France?”

As soon as Aramis saw Porthos, he turned as pale as death, while Fouquet
clenched his hands under his ruffles. D’Artagnan smiled blandly at
both of them, while Porthos bowed, visibly overcome before the royal
presence.

“Porthos here?” murmured Fouquet in Aramis’s ear.

“Hush! deep treachery at work,” hissed the latter.

“Sire,” said D’Artagnan, “it is more than six years ago I ought to have
presented M. du Vallon to your majesty; but certain men resemble stars,
they move not one inch unless their satellites accompany them. The
Pleiades are never disunited, and that is the reason I have selected,
for the purpose of presenting him to you, the very moment when you would
see M. d’Herblay by his side.”

Aramis almost lost countenance. He looked at D’Artagnan with a proud,
haughty air, as though willing to accept the defiance the latter seemed
to throw down.

“Ah! these gentlemen are good friends, then?” said the king.

“Excellent friends, sire; the one can answer for the other. Ask M. de
Vannes now in what manner Belle-Isle was fortified?” Fouquet moved back
a step.

“Belle-Isle,” said Aramis, coldly, “was fortified by that gentleman,”
 and he indicated Porthos with his hand, who bowed a second time.
Louis could not withhold his admiration, though at the same time his
suspicions were aroused.

“Yes,” said D’Artagnan, “but ask monsieur le baron whose assistance he
had in carrying the works out?”

“Aramis’s,” said Porthos, frankly; and he pointed to the bishop.

“What the deuce does all this mean?” thought the bishop, “and what sort
of a termination are we to expect to this comedy?”

“What!” exclaimed the king, “is the cardinal’s, I mean this bishop’s,
name _Aramis?_”

“His _nom de guerre_,” said D’Artagnan.

“My nickname,” said Aramis.

“A truce to modesty!” exclaimed D’Artagnan; “beneath the priest’s robe,
sire, is concealed the most brilliant officer, a gentleman of the most
unparalleled intrepidity, and the wisest theologian in your kingdom.”

Louis raised his head. “And an engineer, also, it appears,” he said,
admiring Aramis’s calm, imperturbable self-possession.

“An engineer for a particular purpose, sire,” said the latter.

“My companion in the musketeers, sire,” said D’Artagnan, with great
warmth of manner, “the man who has more than a hundred times aided your
father’s ministers by his advice--M. d’Herblay, in a word, who, with
M. du Vallon, myself, and M. le Comte de la Fere, who is known to your
majesty, formed that quartette which was a good deal talked about during
the late king’s reign, and during your majesty’s minority.”

“And who fortified Belle-Isle?” the king repeated, in a significant
tone.

Aramis advanced and bowed: “In order to serve the son as I served the
father.”

D’Artagnan looked very narrowly at Aramis while he uttered these words,
which displayed so much true respect, so much warm devotion, such entire
frankness and sincerity, that even he, D’Artagnan, the eternal doubter,
he, the almost infallible in judgment, was deceived by it. “A man who
lies cannot speak in such a tone as that,” he said.

Louis was overcome by it. “In that case,” he said to Fouquet, who
anxiously awaited the result of this proof, “the cardinal’s hat is
promised. Monsieur d’Herblay, I pledge you my honor that the first
promotion shall be yours. Thank M. Fouquet for it.” Colbert overheard
these words; they stung him to the quick, and he left the salon
abruptly. “And you, Monsieur du Vallon,” said the king, “what have you
to ask? I am truly pleased to have it in my power to acknowledge the
services of those who were faithful to my father.”

“Sire--” began Porthos, but he was unable to proceed with what he was
going to say.

“Sire,” exclaimed D’Artagnan, “this worthy gentleman is utterly
overpowered by your majesty’s presence, he who so valiantly sustained
the looks and the fire of a thousand foes. But, knowing what his
thoughts are, I--who am more accustomed to gaze upon the sun--can
translate them: he needs nothing, absolutely nothing; his sole desire
is to have the happiness of gazing upon your majesty for a quarter of an
hour.”

“You shall sup with me this evening,” said the king, saluting Porthos
with a gracious smile.

Porthos became crimson from delight and pride. The king dismissed him,
and D’Artagnan pushed him into the adjoining apartment, after he had
embraced him warmly.

“Sit next to me at table,” said Porthos in his ear.

“Yes, my friend.”

“Aramis is annoyed with me, I think.”

“Aramis has never liked you so much as he does now. Fancy, it was I who
was the means of his getting the cardinal’s hat.”

“Of course,” said Porthos. “By the by, does the king like his guests to
eat much at his table?”

“It is a compliment to himself if you do,” said D’Artagnan, “for he
himself possesses a royal appetite.”



Chapter IX. Explanations.

Aramis cleverly managed to effect a diversion for the purpose of finding
D’Artagnan and Porthos. He came up to the latter, behind one of the
columns, and, as he pressed his hand, said, “So you have escaped from my
prison?”

“Do not scold him,” said D’Artagnan; “it was I, dear Aramis, who set him
free.”

“Ah! my friend,” replied Aramis, looking at Porthos, “could you not have
waited with a little more patience?”

D’Artagnan came to the assistance of Porthos, who already began to
breathe hard, in sore perplexity.

“You see, you members of the Church are great politicians; we mere
soldiers come at once to the point. The facts are these: I went to pay
Baisemeaux a visit--”

Aramis pricked up his ears at this announcement.

“Stay!” said Porthos; “you make me remember that I have a letter from
Baisemeaux for you, Aramis.” And Porthos held out the bishop the letter
we have already seen. Aramis begged to be allowed to read it, and read
it without D’Artagnan feeling in the slightest degree embarrassed by
the circumstance that he was so well acquainted with the contents of it.
Besides, Aramis’s face was so impenetrable, that D’Artagnan could not
but admire him more than ever; after he had read it, he put the letter
into his pocket with the calmest possible air.

“You were saying, captain?” he observed.

“I was saying,” continued the musketeer, “that I had gone to pay
Baisemeaux a visit on his majesty’s service.”

“On his majesty’s service?” said Aramis.

“Yes,” said D’Artagnan, “and, naturally enough, we talked about you and
our friends. I must say that Baisemeaux received me coldly; so I soon
took my leave of him. As I was returning, a soldier accosted me, and
said (no doubt as he recognized me, notwithstanding I was in private
clothes), ‘Captain, will you be good enough to read me the name written
on this envelope?’ and I read, ‘To Monsieur du Vallon, at M. Fouquet’s
house, Saint-Mande.’ The deuce, I said to myself, Porthos has not
returned, then, as I fancied, to Bell-Isle, or to Pierrefonds, but is
at M. Fouquet’s house, at Saint-Mande; and as M. Fouquet is not at
Saint-Mande, Porthos must be quite alone, or, at all events, with
Aramis; I will go and see Porthos, and I accordingly went to see
Porthos.”

“Very good,” said Aramis, thoughtfully.

“You never told me that,” said Porthos.

“I had no time, my friend.”

“And you brought back Porthos with you to Fontainebleau?”

“Yes, to Planchet’s house.”

“Does Planchet live at Fontainebleau?” inquired Aramis.

“Yes, near the cemetery,” said Porthos, thoughtlessly.

“What do you mean by ‘near the cemetery?’” said Aramis, suspiciously.

“Come,” thought the musketeer, “since there is to be a squabble, let us
take advantage of it.”

“Yes, the cemetery,” said Porthos. “Planchet is a very excellent fellow,
who makes very excellent preserves; but his house has windows which look
out upon the cemetery. And a confoundedly melancholy prospect it is! So
this morning--”

“This morning?” said Aramis, more and more excited.

D’Artagnan turned his back to them, and walked to the window, where he
began to play a march upon one of the panes of glass.

“Yes, this morning we saw a man buried there.”

“Ah!”

“Very depressing, was it not? I should never be able to live in a house
where burials can always be seen from the window. D’Artagnan, on the
contrary, seems to like it very much.”

“So D’Artagnan saw it as well?”

“Not simply _saw_ it; he literally never took his eyes off the whole
time.”

Aramis started, and turned to look at the musketeer, but the latter was
engaged in earnest conversation with Saint-Aignan. Aramis continued to
question Porthos, and when he had squeezed all the juice out of this
enormous lemon, he threw the peel aside. He turned towards his friend
D’Artagnan, and clapping him on the shoulder, when Saint-Aignan had left
him, the king’s supper having been announced, said, “D’Artagnan.”

“Yes, my dear fellow,” he replied.

“We do not sup with his majesty, I believe?”

“Well?--_we_ do.”

“Can you give me ten minutes’ conversation?”

“Twenty, if you like. His majesty will take quite that time to get
properly seated at table.”

“Where shall we talk, then?”

“Here, upon these seats if you like; the king has left, we can sit down,
and the apartment is empty.”

“Let us sit down, then.”

They sat down, and Aramis took one of D’Artagnan’s hands in his.

“Tell me, candidly, my dear friend, whether you have not counseled
Porthos to distrust me a little?”

“I admit, I have, but not as you understand it. I saw that Porthos was
bored to death, and I wished, by presenting him to the king, to do for
him, and for you, what you would never do for yourselves.”

“What is that?”

“Speak in your own praise.”

“And you have done it most nobly; I thank you.”

“And I brought the cardinal’s hat a little nearer, just as it seemed to
be retreating from you.”

“Ah! I admit that,” said Aramis, with a singular smile, “you are,
indeed, not to be matched for making your friends’ fortunes for them.”

“You see, then, that I only acted with the view of making Porthos’s
fortune for him.”

“I meant to have done that myself; but your arm reaches farther than
ours.”

It was now D’Artagnan’s turn to smile.

“Come,” said Aramis, “we ought to deal truthfully with each other. Do
you still love me, D’Artagnan?”

“The same as I used to do,” replied D’Artagnan, without compromising
himself too much by this reply.

“In that case, thanks; and now, for the most perfect frankness,” said
Aramis; “you visited Belle-Isle on behalf of the king?”

“_Pardieu!_”

“You wished to deprive us of the pleasure of offering Bell-Isle
completely fortified to the king.”

“But before I could deprive you of that pleasure, I ought to have been
made acquainted with your intention of doing so.”

“You came to Belle-Isle without knowing anything?”

“Of you! yes. How the devil could I imagine that Aramis had become
so clever an engineer as to be able to fortify like Polybius, or
Archimedes?”

“True. And yet you smelt me out over yonder?”

“Oh! yes.”

“And Porthos, too?”

“I did not divine that Aramis was an engineer. I was only able to guess
that Porthos might have become one. There is a saying, one becomes an
orator, one is born a poet; but it has never been said, one is born
Porthos, and one becomes an engineer.”

“Your wit is always amusing,” said Aramis, coldly.

“Well, I will go on.”

“Do. When you found out our secret, you made all the haste you could to
communicate it to the king.”

“I certainly made as much haste as I could, since I saw that you were
making still more. When a man weighing two hundred and fifty pounds, as
Porthos does, rides post; when a gouty prelate--I beg your pardon, but
you yourself told me you were so--when a prelate scours the highway--I
naturally suppose that my two friends, who did not wish to be
communicative with me, had certain matters of the highest importance
to conceal from me, and so I made as much haste as my leanness and the
absence of gout would allow.”

“Did it not occur to you, my dear friend, that you might be rendering
Porthos and myself a very sad service?”

“Yes, I thought it not unlikely; but you and Porthos made me play a very
ridiculous part at Belle-Isle.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Aramis.

“Excuse me,” said D’Artagnan.

“So that,” pursued Aramis, “you now know everything?”

“No, indeed.”

“You know I was obliged to inform M. Fouquet of what had happened, in
order that he would be able to anticipate what you might have to tell
the king?”

“That is rather obscure.”

“Not at all: M. Fouquet has his enemies--you will admit that, I
suppose.”

“Certainly.”

“And one in particular.”

“A dangerous one?”

“A mortal enemy. Well, in order to counteract that man’s influence, it
was necessary that M. Fouquet should give the king a proof of his great
devotion to him, and of his readiness to make the greatest sacrifices.
He surprised his majesty by offering him Belle-Isle. If you had been the
first to reach Paris, the surprise would have been destroyed, it would
have looked as if we had yielded to fear.”

“I understand.”

“That is the whole mystery,” said Aramis, satisfied that he had at last
quite convinced the musketeer.

“Only,” said the latter, “it would have been more simple to have
taken me aside, and said to me, ‘My dear D’Artagnan, we are fortifying
Belle-Isle, and intend to offer it to the king. Tell us frankly, for
whom you are acting. Are you a friend of M. Colbert, or of M. Fouquet?’
Perhaps I should not have answered you, but you would have added,--‘Are
you my friend?’ I should have said ‘Yes.’” Aramis hung down his head.
“In this way,” continued D’Artagnan, “you would have paralyzed my
movements, and I should have gone to the king, and said, ‘Sire, M.
Fouquet is fortifying Belle-Isle, and exceedingly well, too; but here is
a note, which the governor of Belle-Isle gave me for your majesty;’ or,
‘M. Fouquet is about to wait upon your majesty to explain his intentions
with regard to it.’ I should not have been placed in an absurd position;
you would have enjoyed the surprise so long planned, and we should not
have had any occasion to look askant at each other when we met.”

“While, on the contrary,” replied Aramis, “you have acted altogether
as one friendly to M. Colbert. And you really are a friend of his, I
suppose?”

“Certainly not, indeed!” exclaimed the captain. “M. Colbert is a mean
fellow, and I hate him as I used to hate Mazarin, but without fearing
him.”

“Well, then,” said Aramis, “I love M. Fouquet, and his interests are
mine. You know my position. I have no property or means whatever. M.
Fouquet gave me several livings, a bishopric as well; M. Fouquet has
served and obliged me like the generous-hearted man he is, and I know
the world sufficiently well to appreciate a kindness when I meet with
one. M. Fouquet has won my regard, and I have devoted myself to his
service.”

“You could not possibly do better. You will find him a very liberal
master.”

Aramis bit his lips; and then said, “The best a man could possibly
have.” He then paused for a minute, D’Artagnan taking good care not to
interrupt him.

“I suppose you know how Porthos got mixed up in all this?”

“No,” said D’Artagnan; “I am curious, of course, but I never question a
friend when he wishes to keep a secret from me.”

“Well, then, I will tell you.”

“It is hardly worth the trouble, if the confidence is to bind me in any
way.”

“Oh! do not be afraid.; there is no man whom I love better than
Porthos, because he is so simple-minded and good-natured. Porthos is
so straightforward in everything. Since I have become a bishop, I have
looked for these primeval natures, which make me love truth and hate
intrigue.”

D’Artagnan stroked his mustache, but said nothing.

“I saw Porthos and again cultivated his acquaintance; his own time
hanging idly on his hands, his presence recalled my earlier and better
days without engaging me in any present evil. I sent for Porthos to come
to Vannes. M. Fouquet, whose regard for me is very great, having
learnt that Porthos and I were attached to each other by old ties of
friendship, promised him increase of rank at the earliest promotion, and
that is the whole secret.”

“I shall not abuse your confidence,” said D’Artagnan.

“I am sure of that, my dear friend; no one has a finer sense of honor
than yourself.”

“I flatter myself that you are right, Aramis.”

“And now”--and here the prelate looked searchingly and scrutinizingly
at his friend--“now let us talk of ourselves and for ourselves; will you
become one of M. Fouquet’s friends? Do not interrupt me until you know
what that means.”

“Well, I am listening.”

“Will you become a marechal of France, peer, duke, and the possessor of
a duchy, with a million of francs?”

“But, my friend,” replied D’Artagnan, “what must one do to get all
that?”

“Belong to M. Fouquet.”

“But I already belong to the king.”

“Not exclusively, I suppose.”

“Oh! a D’Artagnan cannot be divided.”

“You have, I presume, ambitions, as noble hearts like yours have.”

“Yes, certainly I have.”

“Well?”

“Well! I wish to be a marechal; the king will make me marechal, duke,
peer; the king will make me all that.”

Aramis fixed a searching look upon D’Artagnan.

“Is not the king master?” said D’Artagnan.

“No one disputes it; but Louis XIII. was master also.”

“Oh! my dear friend, between Richelieu and Louis XIII. stood no
D’Artagnan,” said the musketeer, very quietly.

“There are many stumbling-blocks round the king,” said Aramis.

“Not for the king’s feet.”

“Very likely not; still--”

“One moment, Aramis; I observe that every one thinks of himself, and
never of his poor prince; I will maintain myself maintaining him.”

“And if you meet with ingratitude?”

“The weak alone are afraid of that.”

“You are quite certain of yourself?”

“I think so.”

“Still, the king may some day have no further need for you!”

“On the contrary, I think his need of me will soon be greater than ever;
and hearken, my dear fellow, if it became necessary to arrest a new
Conde, who would do it? This--this alone in France!” and D’Artagnan
struck his sword, which clanked sullenly on the tesselated floor.

“You are right,” said Aramis, turning very pale; and then he rose and
pressed D’Artagnan’s hand.

“That is the last summons for supper,” said the captain of the
musketeers; “will you excuse me?”

Aramis threw his arm round the musketeer’s neck, and said, “A
friend like you is the brightest jewel in the royal crown.” And they
immediately separated.

“I was right,” mused D’Artagnan; “there is, indeed, something strangely
serious stirring.”

“We must hasten the explosion,” breathed the coming cardinal, “for
D’Artagnan has discovered the existence of a plot.”



Chapter X. Madame and De Guiche.

It will not be forgotten how Comte de Guiche left the queen-mother’s
apartments on the day when Louis XIV. presented La Vallière with the
beautiful bracelets he had won in the lottery. The comte walked to and
fro for some time outside the palace, in the greatest distress, from
a thousand suspicions and anxieties with which his mind was beset.
Presently he stopped and waited on the terrace opposite the grove of
trees, watching for Madame’s departure. More than half an hour passed
away; and as he was at that moment quite alone, the comte could hardly
have had any very diverting ideas at his command. He drew his tables
from his pocket, and, after hesitating over and over again, determined
to write these words:--“Madame, I implore you to grant me one moment’s
conversation. Do not be alarmed at this request, which contains nothing
in any way opposed to the profound respect with which I subscribe
myself, etc., etc.” He had signed and folded this singular love-letter,
when he suddenly observed several ladies leaving the chateau, and
afterwards several courtiers too; in fact, almost every one that formed
the queen’s circle. He saw La Vallière herself, then Montalais talking
with Malicorne; he watched the departure of the very last of the
numerous guests that had a short time before thronged the queen-mother’s
cabinet.

Madame herself had not yet passed; she would be obliged, however, to
cross the courtyard in order to enter her own apartments; and, from the
terrace where he was standing, De Guiche could see all that was going on
in the courtyard. At last he saw Madame leave, attended by a couple
of pages, who were carrying torches before her. She was walking very
quickly; as soon as she reached the door, she said:

“Let some one go and look for De Guiche: he has to render an account
of a mission he had to discharge for me; if he should be disengaged,
request him to be good enough to come to my apartment.”

De Guiche remained silent, hidden in the shade; but as soon as Madame
had withdrawn, he darted from the terrace down the steps and assumed a
most indifferent air, so that the pages who were hurrying towards his
rooms might meet him.

“Ah! it is Madame, then, who is seeking me!” he said to himself, quite
overcome; and he crushed in his hand the now worse than useless letter.

“M. le comte,” said one of the pages, approaching him, “we are indeed
most fortunate in meeting you.”

“Why so, messieurs?”

“A command from Madame.”

“From Madame!” said De Guiche, looking surprised.

“Yes, M. le comte, her royal highness has been asking for you; she
expects to hear, she told us, the result of a commission you had to
execute for her. Are you at liberty?”

“I am quite at her royal highness’s orders.”

“Will you have the goodness to follow us, then?”

When De Guiche entered the princess’s apartments, he found her pale and
agitated. Montalais was standing at the door, evidently uneasy about
what was passing in her mistress’s mind. De Guiche appeared.

“Ah! is that you, Monsieur de Guiche?” said Madame; “come in, I beg.
Mademoiselle de Montalais, I do not require your attendance any longer.”

Montalais, more puzzled than ever, courtesied and withdrew. De Guiche
and the princess were left alone. The comte had every advantage in his
favor; it was Madame who had summoned him to a rendezvous. But how was
it possible for the comte to make use of this advantage? Madame was so
whimsical, and her disposition so changeable. She soon allowed this to
be perceived, for, suddenly, opening the conversation, she said: “Well!
have you nothing to say to me?”

He imagined she must have guessed his thoughts; he fancied (for those
who are in love are thus constituted, being as credulous and blind as
poets or prophets), he fancied she knew how ardent was his desire to see
her, and also the subject uppermost in his mind.

“Yes, Madame,” he said, “and I think it very singular.”

“The affair of the bracelets,” she exclaimed, eagerly, “you mean that, I
suppose?”

“Yes, Madame.”

“And you think the king is in love; do you not?”

Guiche looked at her for some time; her eyes sank under his gaze, which
seemed to read her very heart.

“I think,” he said, “that the king may possibly have had an idea of
annoying some one; were it not for that, the king would hardly show
himself so earnest in his attentions as he is; he would not run the risk
of compromising, from mere thoughtlessness of disposition, a young girl
against whom no one has been hitherto able to say a word.”

“Indeed! the bold, shameless girl,” said the princess, haughtily.

“I can positively assure your royal highness,” said De Guiche, with a
firmness marked by great respect, “that Mademoiselle de la Vallière
is beloved by a man who merits every respect, for he is a brave and
honorable gentleman.”

“Bragelonne?”

“My friend; yes, Madame.”

“Well, and though he is your friend, what does that matter to the king?”

“The king knows that Bragelonne is affianced to Mademoiselle de la
Vallière; and as Raoul has served the king most valiantly, the king will
not inflict an irreparable injury upon him.”

Madame began to laugh in a manner that produced a sinister impression
upon De Guiche.

“I repeat, Madame, I do not believe the king is in love with
Mademoiselle de la Vallière; and the proof that I do not believe it is,
that I was about to ask you whose _amour propre_ it is likely the king
is desirous of wounding? You, who are well acquainted with the whole
court, can perhaps assist me in ascertaining that; and assuredly, with
greater certainty, since it is everywhere said that your royal highness
is on very friendly terms with the king.”

Madame bit her lips, and, unable to assign any good and sufficient
reasons, changed the conversation. “Prove to me,” she said, fixing on
him one of those looks in which the whole soul seems to pass into the
eyes, “prove to me, I say, that you intended to interrogate me at the
very moment I sent for you.”

De Guiche gravely drew from his pocket the now crumpled note that he had
written, and showed it to her.

“Sympathy,” she said.

“Yes,” said the comte, with an indescribable tenderness of tone,
“sympathy. I have explained to you how and why I sought you; you,
however, have yet to tell me, Madame, why you sent for me.”

“True,” replied the princess. She hesitated, and then suddenly
exclaimed, “Those bracelets will drive me mad.”

“You expected the king would offer them to you,” replied De Guiche.

“Why not?”

“But before you, Madame, before you, his sister-in-law, was there not
the queen herself to whom the king should have offered them?”

“Before La Vallière,” cried the princess, wounded to the quick, “could
he not have presented them to me? Was there not the whole court, indeed,
to choose from?”

“I assure you, Madame,” said the comte, respectfully, “that if any one
heard you speak in this manner, if any one were to see how red your eyes
are, and, Heaven forgive me, to see, too, that tear trembling on your
eyelids, it would be said that your royal highness was jealous.”

“Jealous!” said the princess, haughtily, “jealous of La Vallière!”

She expected to see De Guiche yield beneath her scornful gesture and her
proud tone; but he simply and boldly replied, “Jealous of La Vallière;
yes, Madame.”

“Am I to suppose, monsieur,” she stammered out, “that your object is to
insult me?”

“It is not possible, Madame,” replied the comte, slightly agitated, but
resolved to master that fiery nature.

“Leave the room!” said the princess, thoroughly exasperated, De Guiche’s
coolness and silent respect having made her completely lose her temper.

De Guiche fell back a step, bowed slowly, but with great respect, drew
himself up, looking as white as his lace cuffs, and, in a voice slightly
trembling, said, “It was hardly worth while to have hurried here to be
subjected to this unmerited disgrace.” And he turned away with hasty
steps.

He had scarcely gone half a dozen paces when Madame darted like a
tigress after him, seized him by the cuff, and making him turn round
again, said, trembling with passion as she did so, “The respect you
pretend to have is more insulting than the insult itself. Insult me, if
you please, but at least speak.”

“Madame,” said the comte, gently, as he drew his sword, “thrust this
blade into my heart, rather than kill me by degrees.”

At the look he fixed upon her,--a look full of love, resolution, and
despair, even,--she knew how readily the comte, so outwardly calm in
appearance, would pass his sword through his own breast if she added
another word. She tore the blade from his hands, and, pressing his arm
with a feverish impatience, which might pass for tenderness, said, “Do
not be too hard upon me, comte. You see how I am suffering, and yet you
have no pity for me.”

Tears, the cries of this strange attack, stifled her voice. As soon as
De Guiche saw her weep, he took her in his arms and carried her to an
armchair; in another moment she would have been suffocated.

“Oh, why,” he murmured, as he knelt by her side, “why do you conceal
your troubles from me? Do you love any one--tell me? It would kill me,
I know, but not until I should have comforted, consoled, and served you
even.”

“And do you love me to that extent?” she replied, completely conquered.

“I do indeed love you to that extent, Madame.”

She placed both her hands in his. “My heart is indeed another’s,” she
murmured in so low a tone that her voice could hardly be heard; but he
heard it, and said, “Is it the king you love?”

She gently shook her head, and her smile was like a clear bright streak
in the clouds, through which after the tempest has passed one almost
fancies Paradise is opening. “But,” she added, “there are other passions
in a high-born heart. Love is poetry; but the real life of the heart is
pride. Comte, I was born on a throne, I am proud and jealous of my rank.
Why does the king gather such unworthy objects round him?”

“Once more, I repeat,” said the comte, “you are acting unjustly towards
that poor girl, who will one day be my friend’s wife.”

“Are you simple enough to believe that, comte?”

“If I did not believe it,” he said, turning very pale, “Bragelonne
should be informed of it to-morrow; indeed he should, if I thought that
poor La Vallière had forgotten the vows she had exchanged with Raoul.
But no, it would be cowardly to betray a woman’s secret; it would be
criminal to disturb a friend’s peace of mind.”

“You think, then,” said the princess, with a wild burst of laughter,
“that ignorance is happiness?”

“I believe it,” he replied.

“Prove it to me, then,” she said, hurriedly.

“It is easily done, Madame. It is reported through the whole court that
the king loves you, and that you return his affection.”

“Well?” she said, breathing with difficulty.

“Well; admit for a moment that Raoul, my friend, had come and said to
me, ‘Yes, the king loves Madame, and has made an impression upon her
heart,’ I possibly should have slain Raoul.”

“It would have been necessary,” said the princess, with the obstinacy of
a woman who feels herself not easily overcome, “for M. de Bragelonne to
have had proofs before he ventured to speak to you in that manner.”

“Such, however, is the case,” replied De Guiche, with a deep sigh,
“that, not having been warned, I have never examined into the matter
seriously; and I now find that my ignorance has saved my life.”

“So, then, you drive selfishness and coldness to that extent,” said
Madame, “that you would let this unhappy young man continue to love La
Vallière?”

“I would, until La Vallière’s guilt were revealed.”

“But the bracelets?”

“Well, Madame, since you yourself expected to receive them from the
king, what can I possibly say?”

The argument was a telling one, and the princess was overwhelmed by it,
and from that moment her defeat was assured. But as her heart and
mind were instinct with noble and generous feelings, she understood De
Guiche’s extreme delicacy. She saw that in his heart he really suspected
that the king was in love with La Vallière, and that he did not wish
to resort to the common expedient of ruining a rival in the mind of
a woman, by giving the latter the assurance and certainty that this
rival’s affections were transferred to another woman. She guessed that
his suspicions of La Vallière were aroused, and that, in order to leave
himself time for his convictions to undergo a change, so as not to ruin
Louise utterly, he was determined to pursue a certain straightforward
line of conduct. She could read so much real greatness of character, and
such true generosity of disposition in her lover, that her heart really
warmed with affection towards him, whose passion for her was so pure and
delicate. Despite his fear of incurring her displeasure, De Guiche, by
retaining his position as a man of proud independence of feeling and
deep devotion, became almost a hero in her estimation, and reduced her
to the state of a jealous and little-minded woman. She loved him for
this so tenderly, that she could not refuse to give him a proof of her
affection.

“See how many words we have wasted,” she said, taking his hand,
“suspicions, anxieties, mistrust, sufferings--I think we have enumerated
all those words.”

“Alas! Madame, yes.”

“Efface them from your heart as I drive them from mine. Whether La
Vallière does or does not love the king, and whether the king does
or does not love La Vallière--from this moment you and I will draw a
distinction in the two characters I have to perform. You open your eyes
so wide that I am sure you hardly understand me.”

“You are so impetuous, Madame, that I always tremble at the fear of
displeasing you.”

“And see how he trembles now, poor fellow,” she said, with the most
charming playfulness of manner. “Yes, monsieur, I have two characters
to perform. I am the sister of the king, the sister-in-law of the
king’s wife. In this character ought I not to take an interest in these
domestic intrigues? Come, tell me what you think?”

“As little as possible, Madame.”

“Agreed, monsieur; but it is a question of dignity; and then, you
know, I am the wife of the king’s brother.” De Guiche sighed. “A
circumstance,” she added, with an expression of great tenderness, “which
will remind you that I am always to be treated with the profoundest
respect.” De Guiche fell at her feet, which he kissed, with the
religious fervor of a worshipper. “And I begin to think that, really and
truly, I have another character to perform. I was almost forgetting it.”

“Name it, oh! name it,” said De Guiche.

“I am a woman,” she said, in a voice lower than ever, “and I love.”
 He rose, she opened her arms, and their lips met. A footstep was heard
behind the tapestry, and Mademoiselle de Montalais appeared.

“What do you want?” said Madame.

“M. de Guiche is wanted,” replied Montalais, who was just in time to see
the agitation of the actors of these four characters; for De Guiche had
consistently carried out his part with heroism.



Chapter XI. Montalais and Malicorne.

Montalais was right. M. de Guiche, thus summoned in every direction, was
very much exposed, from such a multiplication of business, to the
risk of not attending to any. It so happened that, considering the
awkwardness of the interruption, Madame, notwithstanding her wounded
pride, and secret anger, could not, for the moment at least, reproach
Montalais for having violated, in so bold a manner, the semi-royal order
with which she had been dismissed on De Guiche’s entrance. De Guiche,
also, lost his presence of mind, or, it would be more correct to say,
had already lost it, before Montalais’s arrival, for, scarcely had he
heard the young girl’s voice, than, without taking leave of Madame, as
the most ordinary politeness required, even between persons equal in
rank and station, he fled from her presence, his heart tumultuously
throbbing, and his brain on fire, leaving the princess with one hand
raised, as though to bid him adieu. Montalais was at no loss, therefore,
to perceive the agitation of the two lovers--the one who fled was
agitated, and the one who remained was equally so.

“Well,” murmured the young girl, as she glanced inquisitively round her,
“this time, at least, I think I know as much as the most curious
woman could possibly wish to know.” Madame felt so embarrassed by this
inquisitorial look, that, as if she heard Montalais’s muttered side
remark, she did not speak a word to her maid of honor, but, casting down
her eyes, retired at once to her bedroom. Montalais, observing this,
stood listening for a moment, and then heard Madame lock and bolt her
door. By this she knew that the rest of the evening was at her own
disposal; and making, behind the door which had just been closed, a
gesture which indicated but little real respect for the princess, she
went down the staircase in search of Malicorne, who was very busily
engaged at that moment in watching a courier, who, covered with dust,
had just left the Comte de Guiche’s apartments. Montalais knew that
Malicorne was engaged in a matter of some importance; she therefore
allowed him to look and stretch out his neck as much as he pleased; and
it was only when Malicorne had resumed his natural position, that she
touched him on the shoulder. “Well,” said Montalais, “what is the latest
intelligence you have?”

“M. de Guiche is in love with Madame.”

“Fine news, truly! I know something more recent than that.”

“Well, what do you know?”

“That Madame is in love with M. de Guiche.”

“The one is the consequence of the other.”

“Not always, my good monsieur.”

“Is that remark intended for me?”

“Present company always excepted.”

“Thank you,” said Malicorne. “Well, and in the other direction, what is
stirring?”

“The king wished, this evening, after the lottery, to see Mademoiselle
de la Vallière.”

“Well, and he has seen her?”

“No, indeed!”

“What do you mean by that?”

“The door was shut and locked.”

“So that--”

“So that the king was obliged to go back again, looking very sheepish,
like a thief who has forgotten his crowbar.”

“Good.”

“And in the third place?” inquired Montalais.

“The courier who has just arrived for De Guiche came from M. de
Bragelonne.”

“Excellent,” said Montalais, clapping her hands together.

“Why so?”

“Because we have work to do. If we get weary now, something unlucky will
be sure to happen.”

“We must divide the work, then,” said Malicorne, “in order to avoid
confusion.”

“Nothing easier,” replied Montalais. “Three intrigues, carefully nursed,
and carefully encouraged, will produce, one with another, and taking a
low average, three love letters a day.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Malicorne, shrugging his shoulders, “you cannot mean
what you say, darling; three letters a day, that may do for sentimental
common people. A musketeer on duty, a young girl in a convent, may
exchange letters with their lovers once a day, perhaps, from the top
of a ladder, or through a hole in the wall. A letter contains all the
poetry their poor little hearts have to boast of. But the cases we have
in hand require to be dealt with very differently.”

“Well, finish,” said Montalais, out of patience with him. “Some one may
come.”

“Finish! Why, I am only at the beginning. I have still three points as
yet untouched.”

“Upon my word, he will be the death of me, with his Flemish
indifference,” exclaimed Montalais.

“And you will drive me mad with your Italian vivacity. I was going to
say that our lovers here will be writing volumes to each other. But what
are you driving at?”

“At this. Not one of our lady correspondents will be able to keep the
letters they may receive.”

“Very likely.”

“M. de Guiche will not be able to keep his either.”

“That is probable.”

“Very well, then; I will take care of all that.”

“That is the very thing that is impossible,” said Malicorne.

“Why so?”

“Because you are not your own mistress; your room is as much La
Vallière’s as yours; and there are certain persons who will think
nothing of visiting and searching a maid of honor’s room; so that I am
terribly afraid of the queen, who is as jealous as a Spaniard; of the
queen-mother, who is as jealous as a couple of Spaniards; and, last of
all, of Madame herself, who has jealousy enough for ten Spaniards.”

“You forgot some one else.”

“Who?”

“Monsieur.”

“I was only speaking of the women. Let us add them up, then: we will
call Monsieur, No. 1.”

“De Guiche?”

“No. 2.”

“The Vicomte de Bragelonne?”

“No. 3.”

“And the king, the king?”

“No. 4. Of course the king, who not only will be more jealous, but more
powerful than all the rest put together. Ah, my dear!”

“Well?”

“Into what a wasp’s nest you have thrust yourself!”

“And as yet not quite far enough, if you will follow me into it.”

“Most certainly I will follow you where you like. Yet--”

“Well, yet--”

“While we have time, I think it will be prudent to turn back.”

“But I, on the contrary, think the wisest course to take is to put
ourselves at once at the head of all these intrigues.”

“You will never be able to do it.”

“With you, I could superintend ten of them. I am in my element, you must
know. I was born to live at the court, as the salamander is made to live
in the fire.”

“Your comparison does not reassure me in the slightest degree in the
world, my dear Montalais. I have heard it said, and by learned men too,
that, in the first place, there are no salamanders at all, and that, if
there had been any, they would have been infallibly baked or roasted on
leaving the fire.”

“Your learned men may be very wise as far as salamanders are concerned,
but they would never tell you what I can tell you; namely, that Aure
de Montalais is destined, before a month is over, to become the first
diplomatist in the court of France.”

“Be it so, but on condition that I shall be the second.”

“Agreed; an offensive and defensive alliance, of course.”

“Only be very careful of any letters.”

“I will hand them to you as I receive them.”

“What shall we tell the king about Madame?”

“That Madame is still in love with his majesty.”

“What shall we tell Madame about the king?”

“That she would be exceedingly wrong not to humor him.”

“What shall we tell La Vallière about Madame?”

“Whatever we choose, for La Vallière is in our power.”

“How so?”

“Every way.”

“What do you mean?”

“In the first place, through the Vicomte de Bragelonne.”

“Explain yourself.”

“You do not forget, I hope, that Monsieur de Bragelonne has written many
letters to Mademoiselle de la Vallière.”

“I forget nothing.”

“Well, then, it was I who received, and I who intercepted those
letters.”

“And, consequently, it is you who have them still?”

“Yes.”

“Where,--here?”

“Oh, no; I have them safe at Blois, in the little room you know well
enough.”

“That dear little room,--that darling little room, the ante-chamber of
the palace I intend you to live in one of these days. But, I beg your
pardon, you said that all those letters are in that little room?”

“Yes.”

“Did you not put them in a box?”

“Of course; in the same box where I put all the letters I received from
you, and where I put mine also when your business or your amusements
prevented you from coming to our rendezvous.”

“Ah, very good,” said Malicorne.

“Why are you satisfied?”

“Because I see there is a possibility of not having to run to Blois
after the letters, for I have them here.”

“You have brought the box away?”

“It was very dear to me, because it belonged to you.”

“Be sure and take care of it, for it contains original documents that
will be of priceless value by and by.”

“I am perfectly well aware of that indeed, and that is the very reason
why I laugh as I do, and with all my heart, too.”

“And now, one last word.”

“Why _last?_”

“Do we need any one to assist us?”

“No one.”

“Valets or maid-servants?”

“Bad policy. You will give the letters,--you will receive them. Oh!
we must have no pride in this affair, otherwise M. Malicorne and
Mademoiselle Aure, not transacting their own affairs themselves, will
have to make up their minds to see them done by others.”

“You are quite right; but what is going on yonder in M. de Guiche’s
room?”

“Nothing; he is only opening his window.”

“Let us be gone.” And they both immediately disappeared, all the terms
of the contract being agreed on.

The window just opened was, in fact, that of the Comte de Guiche. It
was not alone with the hope of catching a glimpse of Madame through her
curtains that he seated himself by the open window for his preoccupation
of mind had at that time a different origin. He had just received, as
we have already stated, the courier who had been dispatched to him by
Bragelonne, the latter having written to De Guiche a letter which had
made the deepest impression upon him, and which he had read over and
over again. “Strange, strange!” he murmured. “How irresponsible are the
means by which destiny hurries men onward to their fate!” Leaving the
window in order to approach nearer to the light, he once more read the
letter he had just received:--


“CALAIS.

“MY DEAR COUNT,--I found M. de Wardes at Calais; he has been
seriously wounded in an affair with the Duke of Buckingham. De Wardes
is, as you know, unquestionably brave, but full of malevolent and wicked
feelings. He conversed with me about yourself, for whom, he says, he
has a warm regard, also about Madame, whom he considers a beautiful and
amiable woman. He has guessed your affection for a certain person. He
also talked to me about the lady for whom I have so ardent a regard, and
showed the greatest interest on my behalf in expressing a deep pity for
me, accompanied, however, by dark hints which alarmed me at first, but
which I at last looked upon as the result of his usual love of mystery.
These are the facts: he had received news of the court; you will
understand, however, that it was only through M. de Lorraine. The report
goes, so says the news, that a change has taken place in the king’s
affections. You know whom that concerns. Afterwards, the news continues,
people are talking about one of the maids of honor, respecting whom
various slanderous reports are being circulated. These vague phrases
have not allowed me to sleep. I have been deploring, ever
since yesterday, that my diffidence and vacillation of purpose,
notwithstanding a certain obstinacy of character I may possess, have
left me unable to reply to these insinuations. In a word, M. de Wardes
was setting off for Paris, and I did not delay his departure with
explanations; for it seemed rather hard, I confess, to cross-examine a
man whose wounds are hardly yet closed. In short, he travelled by short
stages, as he was anxious to leave, he said, in order to be present at a
curious spectacle the court cannot fail to offer within a short time.
He added a few congratulatory words accompanied by vague sympathizing
expressions. I could not understand the one any more than the other. I
was bewildered by my own thoughts, and tormented by a mistrust of this
man,--a mistrust which, you know better than any one else, I have never
been able to overcome. As soon as he left, my perceptions seemed
to become clearer. It is hardly possible that a man of De Wardes’s
character should not have communicated something of his own malicious
nature to the statements he made to me. It is not unlikely, therefore,
that in the strange hints De Wardes threw out in my presence, there may
be a mysterious signification, which I might have some difficulty in
applying either to myself or to some one with whom you are acquainted.
Being compelled to leave as soon as possible, in obedience to the king’s
commands, the idea did not occur to me of running after De Wardes in
order to ask him to explain his reserve; but I have dispatched a courier
to you with this letter, which will explain in detail my various doubts.
I regard you as myself; you have reflected and observed; it will be for
you to act. M. de Wardes will arrive very shortly; endeavor to learn
what he meant, if you do not already know. M. de Wardes, moreover,
pretended that the Duke of Buckingham left Paris on the very best of
terms with Madame. This was an affair which would have unhesitatingly
made me draw my sword, had I not felt that I was under the necessity
of dispatching the king’s mission before undertaking any quarrel
whatsoever. Burn this letter, which Olivain will hand you. Whatever
Olivain says, you may confidently rely on. Will you have the goodness,
my dear comte, to recall me to the remembrance of Mademoiselle de la
Vallière, whose hands I kiss with the greatest respect.

“Your devoted

“DE BRAGELONNE.

“P. S.--If anything serious should happen--we should be prepared for
everything, dispatch a courier to me with this one single word, ‘come,’
and I will be in Paris within six and thirty hours after the receipt of
your letter.”


De Guiche sighed, folded up the letter a third time, and, instead of
burning it, as Raoul had recommended him to do, placed it in his pocket.
He felt it needed reading over and over again.

“How much distress of mind, yet what sublime confidence, he shows!”
 murmured the comte; “he has poured out his whole soul in this letter.
He says nothing of the Comte de la Fere, and speaks of his respect for
Louise. He cautions me on my own account, and entreats me on his. Ah!”
 continued De Guiche, with a threatening gesture, “you interfere in my
affairs, Monsieur de Wardes, do you? Very well, then; I will shortly
occupy myself with yours. As for you, poor Raoul,--you who intrust your
heart to my keeping, be assured I will watch over it.”

With this promise, De Guiche begged Malicorne to come immediately to his
apartments, if possible. Malicorne acknowledged the invitation with an
activity which was the first result of his conversation with Montalais.
And while De Guiche, who thought that his motive was undiscovered,
cross-examined Malicorne, the latter, who appeared to be working in the
dark, soon guessed his questioner’s motives. The consequence was,
that, after a quarter of an hour’s conversation, during which De Guiche
thought he had ascertained the whole truth with regard to La Vallière
and the king, he had learned absolutely nothing more than his own eyes
had already acquainted him with, while Malicorne learned, or guessed,
that Raoul, who was absent, was fast becoming suspicious, and that De
Guiche intended to watch over the treasure of the Hesperides. Malicorne
accepted the office of dragon. De Guiche fancied he had done everything
for his friend, and soon began to think of nothing but his personal
affairs. The next evening, De Wardes’s return and first appearance at
the king’s reception were announced. When that visit had been paid, the
convalescent waited on Monsieur; De Guiche taking care, however, to be
at Monsieur’s apartments before the visit took place.



Chapter XII. How De Wardes Was Received at Court.

Monsieur had received De Wardes with that marked favor light and
frivolous minds bestow on every novelty that comes in their way. De
Wardes, who had been absent for a month, was like fresh fruit to him.
To treat him with marked kindness was an infidelity to old friends, and
there is always something fascinating in that; moreover, it was a sort
of reparation to De Wardes himself. Nothing, consequently, could exceed
the favorable notice Monsieur took of him. The Chevalier de Lorraine,
who feared this rival but a little, but who respected a character and
disposition only too parallel to his own in every particular, with the
addition of a bull-dog courage he did not himself possess, received De
Wardes with a greater display of regard and affection than even Monsieur
had done. De Guiche, as we have said, was there also, but kept in the
background, waiting very patiently until all these interchanges were
over. De Wardes, while talking to the others, and even to Monsieur
himself, had not for a moment lost sight of De Guiche, who, he
instinctively felt, was there on his account. As soon as he had finished
with the others, he went up to De Guiche. They exchanged the most
courteous compliments, after which De Wardes returned to Monsieur and
the other gentlemen.

In the midst of these congratulations Madame was announced. She had
been informed of De Wardes’s arrival, and knowing all the details of his
voyage and duel, she was not sorry to be present at the remarks she
knew would be made, without delay, by one who, she felt assured, was her
personal enemy. Two or three of her ladies accompanied her. De Wardes
saluted Madame in the most graceful and respectful manner, and, as a
commencement of hostilities, announced, in the first place, that he
could furnish the Duke of Buckingham’s friends with the latest news
about him. This was a direct answer to the coldness with which Madame
had received him. The attack was a vigorous one, and Madame felt the
blow, but without appearing to have even noticed it. He rapidly cast a
glance at Monsieur and at De Guiche,--the former colored, and the latter
turned very pale. Madame alone preserved an unmoved countenance; but,
as she knew how many unpleasant thoughts and feelings her enemy could
awaken in the two persons who were listening to him, she smilingly
bent forward towards the traveler, as if to listen to the news he had
brought--but he was speaking of other matters. Madame was brave, even to
imprudence; if she were to retreat, it would be inviting an attack; so,
after the first disagreeable impression had passed away, she returned to
the charge.

“Have you suffered much from your wounds, Monsieur de Wardes?” she
inquired, “for we have been told that you had the misfortune to get
wounded.”

It was now De Wardes’s turn to wince; he bit his lips, and replied, “No,
Madame, hardly at all.”

“Indeed! and yet in this terribly hot weather--”

“The sea-breezes were very fresh and cool, Madame, and then I had one
consolation.”

“Indeed! What was it?”

“The knowledge that my adversary’s sufferings were still greater than my
own.”

“Ah! you mean he was more seriously wounded than you were; I was not
aware of that,” said the princess, with utter indifference.

“Oh, Madame, you are mistaken, or rather you pretend to misunderstand
my remark. I did not say that he was a greater sufferer in body than
myself; but his heart was very seriously affected.”

De Guiche comprehended instinctively from what direction the struggle
was approaching; he ventured to make a sign to Madame, as if entreating
her to retire from the contest. But she, without acknowledging De
Guiche’s gesture, without pretending to have noticed it even, and still
smiling, continued:

“Is it possible,” she said, “that the Duke of Buckingham’s heart was
touched? I had no idea, until now, that a heart-wound could be cured.”

“Alas! Madame,” replied De Wardes, politely, “every woman believes that;
and it is this belief that gives them that superiority to man which
confidence begets.”

“You misunderstand altogether, dearest,” said the prince, impatiently;
“M. de Wardes means that the Duke of Buckingham’s heart had been
touched, not by the sword, but by something sharper.”

“Ah! very good, very good!” exclaimed Madame. “It is a jest of M. de
Wardes’s. Very good; but I should like to know if the Duke of Buckingham
would appreciate the jest. It is, indeed, a very great pity he is not
here, M. de Wardes.”

The young man’s eyes seemed to flash fire. “Oh!” he said, as he clenched
his teeth, “there is nothing I should like better.”

De Guiche did not move. Madame seemed to expect that he would come to
her assistance. Monsieur hesitated. The Chevalier de Lorraine advanced
and continued the conversation.

“Madame,” he said, “De Wardes knows perfectly well that for a
Buckingham’s heart to be touched is nothing new, and what he has said
has already taken place.”

“Instead of an ally, I have two enemies,” murmured Madame; “two
determined enemies, and in league with each other.” And she changed the
conversation. To change the conversation is, as every one knows, a
right possessed by princes which etiquette requires all to respect. The
remainder of the conversation was moderate enough in tone; the principal
actors had rehearsed their parts. Madame withdrew easily, and Monsieur,
who wished to question her on several matters, offered her his hand on
leaving. The chevalier was seriously afraid that an understanding might
be established between the husband and wife if he were to leave them
quietly together. He therefore made his way to Monsieur’s apartments, in
order to surprise him on his return, and to destroy with a few words all
the good impressions Madame might have been able to sow in his heart. De
Guiche advanced towards De Wardes, who was surrounded by a large number
of persons, and thereby indicated his wish to converse with him; De
Wardes, at the same time, showing by his looks and by a movement of his
head that he perfectly understood him. There was nothing in these signs
to enable strangers to suppose they were otherwise than upon the most
friendly footing. De Guiche could therefore turn away from him, and wait
until he was at liberty. He had not long to wait; for De Wardes,
freed from his questioners, approached De Guiche, and after a fresh
salutation, they walked side by side together.

“You have made a good impression since your return, my dear De Wardes,”
 said the comte.

“Excellent, as you see.”

“And your spirits are just as lively as ever?”

“Better.”

“And a very great happiness, too.”

“Why not? Everything is so ridiculous in this world, everything so
absurd around us.”

“You are right.”

“You are of my opinion, then?”

“I should think so! And what news do you bring us from yonder?”

“I? None at all. I have come to look for news here.”

“But, tell me, you surely must have seen some people at Boulogne, one of
our friends, for instance; it is no great time ago.”

“Some people--one of our friends--”

“Your memory is short.”

“Ah! true; Bragelonne, you mean.”

“Exactly so.”

“Who was on his way to fulfil a mission, with which he was intrusted to
King Charles II.”

“Precisely. Well, then, did he not tell you, or did not you tell him--”

“I do not precisely know what I told him, I must confess: but I do know
what I did _not_ tell him.” De Wardes was _finesse_ itself. He
perfectly well knew from De Guiche’s tone and manner, which was cold
and dignified, that the conversation was about to assume a disagreeable
turn. He resolved to let it take what course it pleased, and to keep
strictly on his guard.

“May I ask you what you did not tell him?” inquired De Guiche.

“All about La Vallière.”

“La Vallière... What is it? and what was that strange circumstance you
seem to have known over yonder, which Bragelonne, who was here on the
spot, was not acquainted with?”

“Do you really ask me that in a serious manner?”

“Nothing more so.”

“What! you, a member of the court, living in Madame’s household, a
friend of Monsieur’s, a guest at their table, the favorite of our lovely
princess?”

Guiche colored violently from anger. “What princess are you alluding
to?” he said.

“I am only acquainted with one, my dear fellow. I am speaking of Madame
herself. Are you devoted to another princess, then? Come, tell me.”

De Guiche was on the point of launching out, but he saw the drift of
the remark. A quarrel was imminent between the two young men. De Wardes
wished the quarrel to be only in Madame’s name, while De Guiche would
not accept it except on La Vallière’s account. From this moment, it
became a series of feigned attacks, which would have continued until one
of the two had been touched home. De Guiche therefore resumed all the
self-possession he could command.

“There is not the slightest question in the world of Madame in this
matter, my dear De Wardes.” said Guiche, “but simply of what you were
talking about just now.”

“What was I saying?”

“That you had concealed certain things from Bragelonne.”

“Certain things which you know as well as I do,” replied De Wardes.

“No, upon my honor.”

“Nonsense.”

“If you tell me what they are, I shall know, but not otherwise, I
swear.”

“What! I who have just arrived from a distance of sixty leagues, and you
who have not stirred from this place, who have witnessed with your
own eyes that which rumor informed me of at Calais! Do you now tell
me seriously that you do not know what it is about? Oh! comte, this is
hardly charitable of you.”

“As you like, De Wardes; but I again repeat, I know nothing.”

“You are truly discreet--well!--perhaps it is very prudent of you.”

“And so you will not tell me anything, will not tell me any more than
you told Bragelonne?”

“You are pretending to be deaf, I see. I am convinced that Madame could
not possibly have more command over herself than _you_ have.”

“Double hypocrite,” murmured Guiche to himself, “you are again returning
to the old subject.”

“Very well, then,” continued De Wardes, “since we find it so difficult
to understand each other about La Vallière and Bragelonne let us speak
about your own affairs.”

“Nay,” said De Guiche, “I have no affairs of my own to talk about. You
have not said anything about me, I suppose, to Bragelonne, which you
cannot repeat to my face?”

“No; but understand me, Guiche, that however much I may be ignorant of
certain matters, I am quite as conversant with others. If, for instance,
we were conversing about the intimacies of the Duke of Buckingham at
Paris, as I did during my journey with the duke, I could tell you a
great many interesting circumstances. Would you like me to mention
them?”

De Guiche passed his hand across his forehead, which was covered
in perspiration. “No, no,” he said, “a hundred times no! I have no
curiosity for matters which do not concern me. The Duke of Buckingham
is for me nothing more than a simple acquaintance, whilst Raoul is
an intimate friend. I have not the slightest curiosity to learn what
happened to the duke, while I have, on the contrary, the greatest
interest in all that happened to Raoul.”

“In Paris?”

“Yes, in Paris, or Boulogne. You understand I am on the spot; if
anything should happen, I am here to meet it; whilst Raoul is absent,
and has only myself to represent him; so, Raoul’s affairs before my
own.”

“But he will return?”

“Not, however, until his mission is completed. In the meantime, you
understand, evil reports cannot be permitted to circulate about him
without my looking into them.”

“And for a better reason still, that he will remain some time in
London,” said De Wardes, chuckling.

“You think so,” said De Guiche, simply.

“Think so, indeed! do you suppose he was sent to London for no other
purpose than to go there and return again immediately? No, no; he was
sent to London to remain there.”

“Ah! De Wardes,” said De Guiche, grasping De Wardes’s hand, “that is a
very serious suspicion concerning Bragelonne, which completely confirms
what he wrote to me from Boulogne.”

De Wardes resumed his former coldness of manner: his love of raillery
had led him too far, and by his own imprudence, he had laid himself open
to attack.

“Well, tell me, what did he write to you about?” he inquired.

“He told me that you had artfully insinuated some injurious remarks
against La Vallière, and that you had seemed to laugh at his great
confidence in that young girl.”

“Well, it is perfectly true I did so,” said De Wardes, “and I was quite
ready, at the time, to hear from the Vicomte de Bragelonne that which
every man expects from another whenever anything may have been said
to displease him. In the same way, for instance, if I were seeking a
quarrel with you, I should tell you that Madame after having shown
the greatest preference for the Duke of Buckingham, is at this moment
supposed to have sent the handsome duke away for your benefit.”

“Oh! that would not wound me in the slightest degree, my dear De
Wardes,” said De Guiche, smiling, notwithstanding the shiver that
ran through his whole frame. “Why, such a favor would be too great a
happiness.”

“I admit that, but if I absolutely wished to quarrel with you, I should
try and invent a falsehood, perhaps, and speak to you about a certain
arbor, where you and that illustrious princess were together--I should
speak also of certain gratifications, of certain kissings of the hand;
and you who are so secret on all occasions, so hasty, so punctilious--”

“Well,” said De Guiche, interrupting him, with a smile upon his lips,
although he almost felt as if he were going to die; “I swear I should
not care for that, nor should I in any way contradict you; for you must
know, my dear marquis, that for all matters which concern myself I am a
block of ice; but it is a very different thing when an absent friend
is concerned, a friend, who, on leaving, confided his interests to my
safe-keeping; for such a friend, De Wardes, believe me, I am like fire
itself.”

“I understand you, Monsieur de Guiche. In spite of what you say, there
cannot be any question between us, just now, either of Bragelonne or of
this insignificant girl, whose name is La Vallière.”

At this moment some of the younger courtiers were crossing the
apartment, and having already heard the few words which had just been
pronounced, were able also to hear those which were about to follow. De
Wardes observed this, and continued aloud:--“Oh! if La Vallière were a
coquette like Madame, whose innocent flirtations, I am sure, were, first
of all, the cause of the Duke of Buckingham being sent back to England,
and afterwards were the reason of your being sent into exile; for you
will not deny, I suppose, that Madame’s pretty ways really had a certain
influence over you?”

The courtiers drew nearer to the speakers, Saint-Aignan at their head,
and then Manicamp.

“But, my dear fellow, whose fault was that?” said De Guiche, laughing.
“I am a vain, conceited fellow, I know, and everybody else knows it too.
I took seriously that which was only intended as a jest, and got myself
exiled for my pains. But I saw my error. I overcame my vanity, and I
obtained my recall, by making the _amende honorable_, and by promising
myself to overcome this defect; and the consequence is, that I am so
thoroughly cured, that I now laugh at the very thing which, three or
four days ago, would have almost broken my heart. But Raoul is in love,
and is loved in return; he cannot laugh at the reports which disturb his
happiness--reports which you seem to have undertaken to interpret, when
you know, marquis, as I do, as these gentlemen do, as every one does in
fact, that all such reports are pure calumny.”

“Calumny!” exclaimed De Wardes, furious at seeing himself caught in the
snare by De Guiche’s coolness of temper.

“Certainly--calumny. Look at this letter from him, in which he tells me
you have spoken ill of Mademoiselle de la Vallière; and where he asks
me, if what you reported about this young girl is true or not. Do you
wish me to appeal to these gentlemen, De Wardes, to decide?” And with
admirable coolness, De Guiche read aloud the paragraph of the letter
which referred to La Vallière. “And now,” continued De Guiche, “there
is no doubt in the world, as far as I am concerned, that you wished
to disturb Bragelonne’s peace of mind, and that your remarks were
maliciously intended.”

De Wardes looked round him, to see if he could find support from any
one; but, at the idea that De Wardes had insulted, either directly or
indirectly, the idol of the day, every one shook his head; and De Wardes
saw that he was in the wrong.

“Messieurs,” said De Guiche, intuitively divining the general feeling,
“my discussion with Monsieur de Wardes refers to a subject so delicate
in its nature, that it is most important no one should hear more than
you have already heard. Close the doors, then, I beg you, and let us
finish our conversation in the manner which becomes two gentlemen, one
of whom has given the other the lie.”

“Messieurs, messieurs!” exclaimed those who were present.

“Is it your opinion, then, that I was wrong in defending Mademoiselle
de la Vallière?” said De Guiche. “In that case, I pass judgment upon
myself, and am ready to withdraw the offensive words I may have used to
Monsieur de Wardes.”

“The deuce! certainly not!” said Saint-Aignan. “Mademoiselle de la
Vallière is an angel.”

“Virtue and purity itself,” said Manicamp.

“You see, Monsieur de Wardes,” said De Guiche, “I am not the only one
who undertakes the defense of that poor girl. I entreat you, therefore,
messieurs, a second time, to leave us. You see, it is impossible we
could be more calm and composed than we are.”

It was the very thing the courtiers wished; some went out at one door,
and the rest at the other, and the two young men were left alone.

“Well played,” said De Wardes, to the comte.

“Was it not?” replied the latter.

“How can it be wondered at, my dear fellow; I have got quite rusty in
the country, while the command you have acquired over yourself, comte,
confounds me; a man always gains something in women’s society; so, pray
accept my congratulations.”

“I do accept them.”

“And I will make Madame a present of them.”

“And now, my dear Monsieur de Wardes, let us speak as loud as you
please.”

“Do not defy me.”

“I do defy you, for you are known to be an evil-minded man; if you do
that, you will be looked upon as a coward, too; and Monsieur would have
you hanged, this evening, at his window-casement. Speak, my dear De
Wardes, speak.”

“I have fought already.”

“But not quite enough, yet.”

“I see, you would not be sorry to fight with me while my wounds are
still open.”

“No; better still.”

“The deuce! you are unfortunate in the moment you have chosen; a duel,
after the one I have just fought, would hardly suit me; I have lost too
much blood at Boulogne; at the slightest effort my wounds would open
again, and you would really have too good a bargain.”

“True,” said De Guiche; “and yet, on your arrival here, your looks and
your arms showed there was nothing the matter with you.”

“Yes, my arms are all right, but my legs are weak; and then, I have not
had a foil in my hand since that devil of a duel; and you, I am sure,
have been fencing every day, in order to carry your little conspiracy
against me to a successful issue.”

“Upon my honor, monsieur,” replied De Guiche, “it is six months since I
last practiced.”

“No, comte, after due reflection, I will not fight, at least, with you.
I will await Bragelonne’s return, since you say it is Bragelonne who
finds fault with me.”

“Oh no, indeed! You shall not wait until Bragelonne’s return,” exclaimed
the comte, losing all command over himself, “for you have said that
Bragelonne might, possibly, be some time before he returns; and, in the
meanwhile, your wicked insinuations would have had their effect.”

“Yet, I shall have my excuse. So take care.”

“I will give you a week to finish your recovery.”

“That is better. We will wait a week.”

“Yes, yes, I understand; a week will give time to my adversary to make
his escape. No, no; I will not give you one day, even.”

“You are mad, monsieur,” said De Wardes, retreating a step.

“And you are a coward, if you do not fight willingly. Nay, what is
more, I will denounce you to the king, as having refused to fight, after
having insulted La Vallière.”

“Ah!” said De Wardes, “you are dangerously treacherous, though you pass
for a man of honor.”

“There is nothing more dangerous than the treachery, as you term it, of
the man whose conduct is always loyal and upright.”

“Restore me the use of my legs, then, or get yourself bled, till you are
as white as I am, so as to equalize our chances.”

“No, no; I have something better than that to propose.”

“What is it?”

“We will fight on horseback, and will exchange three pistol-shots each.
You are a first rate marksman. I have seen you bring down swallows with
single balls, and at full gallop. Do not deny it, for I have seen you
myself.”

“I believe you are right,” said De Wardes; “and as that is the case, it
is not unlikely I might kill you.”

“You would be rendering me a very great service, if you did.”

“I will do my best.”

“Is it agreed? Give me your hand upon it.”

“There it is: but on one condition, however.”

“Name it.”

“That not a word shall be said about it to the king.”

“Not a word, I swear.”

“I will go and get my horse, then.”

“And I, mine.”

“Where shall we meet?”

“In the plain; I know an admirable place.”

“Shall we go together?”

“Why not?”

And both of them, on their way to the stables, passed beneath Madame’s
windows, which were faintly lighted; a shadow could be seen behind the
lace curtains. “There is a woman,” said De Wardes, smiling, “who
does not suspect that we are going to fight--to die, perhaps, on her
account.”



Chapter XIII. The Combat.

De Wardes and De Guiche selected their horses, and saddled them with
their own hands, with holster saddles. De Guiche, having two pairs of
pistols, went to his apartments to get them; and after having loaded
them, gave the choice to De Wardes, who selected the pair he had made
use of twenty times before--the same, indeed, with which De Guiche had
seen him kill swallows flying. “You will not be surprised,” he said, “if
I take every precaution. You know the weapons well, and, consequently, I
am only making the chances equal.”

“Your remark was quite useless,” replied De Guiche, “and you have done
no more than you are entitled to do.”

“Now,” said De Wardes, “I beg you to have the goodness to help me to
mount; for I still experience a little difficulty in doing so.”

“In that case, we had better settle the matter on foot.”

“No; once in the saddle, I shall be all right.”

“Very good, then; we will not speak of it again,” said De Guiche, as he
assisted De Wardes to mount his horse.

“And now,” continued the young man, “in our eagerness to murder one
another, we have neglected one circumstance.”

“What is that?”

“That it is quite dark, and we shall almost be obliged to grope about,
in order to kill.”

“Oh!” said De Guiche, “you are as anxious as I am that everything should
be done in proper order.”

“Yes; but I do not wish people to say that you have assassinated me,
any more than, supposing I were to kill you, I should myself like to be
accused of such a crime.”

“Did any one make a similar remark about your duel with the Duke of
Buckingham?” said De Guiche; “it took place precisely under the same
conditions as ours.”

“Very true; but there was still light enough to see by; and we were up
to our middles almost, in the water; besides, there were a good number
of spectators on shore, looking at us.”

De Guiche reflected for a moment; and the thought which had already
presented itself to him became more confirmed--that De Wardes wished to
have witnesses present, in order to bring back the conversation about
Madame, and to give a new turn to the combat. He avoided saying a
word in reply, therefore; and, as De Wardes once more looked at him
interrogatively, he replied, by a movement of the head, that it would be
best to let things remain as they were. The two adversaries consequently
set off, and left the chateau by the same gate, close to which we may
remember to have seen Montalais and Malicorne together. The night, as
if to counteract the extreme heat of the day, had gathered the clouds
together in masses which were moving slowly along from the west to the
east. The vault above, without a clear spot anywhere visible, or without
the faintest indication of thunder, seemed to hang heavily over
the earth, and soon began, by the force of the wind, to split into
streamers, like a huge sheet torn to shreds. Large and warm drops of
rain began to fall heavily, and gathered the dust into globules, which
rolled along the ground. At the same time, the hedges, which seemed
conscious of the approaching storm, the thirsty plants, the drooping
branches of the trees, exhaled a thousand aromatic odors, which revived
in the mind tender recollections, thoughts of youth, endless life,
happiness, and love. “How fresh the earth smells,” said De Wardes; “it
is a piece of coquetry to draw us to her.”

“By the by,” replied De Guiche, “several ideas have just occurred to me;
and I wish to have your opinion upon them.”

“Relative to--”

“Relative to our engagement.”

“It is quite some time, in fact, that we should begin to arrange
matters.”

“Is it to be an ordinary combat, and conducted according to established
custom?”

“Let me first know what your established custom is.”

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