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24 THE PAVILION
At nine o’clock d’Artagnan was at the Hotel des Gardes; he found
Planchet all ready. The fourth horse had arrived.
Planchet was armed with his musketoon and a pistol. D’Artagnan had his
sword and placed two pistols in his belt; then both mounted and departed
quietly. It was quite dark, and no one saw them go out. Planchet took
place behind his master, and kept at a distance of ten paces from him.
D’Artagnan crossed the quays, went out by the gate of La Conference and
followed the road, much more beautiful then than it is now, which leads
to St. Cloud.
As long as he was in the city, Planchet kept at the respectful distance
he had imposed upon himself; but as soon as the road began to be more
lonely and dark, he drew softly nearer, so that when they entered the
Bois de Boulogne he found himself riding quite naturally side by side
with his master. In fact, we must not dissemble that the oscillation of
the tall trees and the reflection of the moon in the dark underwood gave
him serious uneasiness. D’Artagnan could not help perceiving that
something more than usual was passing in the mind of his lackey and
said, "Well, Monsieur Planchet, what is the matter with us now?"
"Don’t you think, monsieur, that woods are like churches?"
"How so, Planchet?"
"Because we dare not speak aloud in one or the other."
"But why did you not dare to speak aloud, Planchet—because you are
afraid?"
"Afraid of being heard? Yes, monsieur."
"Afraid of being heard! Why, there is nothing improper in our
conversation, my dear Planchet, and no one could find fault with it."
"Ah, monsieur!" replied Planchet, recurring to his besetting idea, "that
Monsieur Bonacieux has something vicious in his eyebrows, and something
very unpleasant in the play of his lips."
"What the devil makes you think of Bonacieux?"
"Monsieur, we think of what we can, and not of what we will."
"Because you are a coward, Planchet."
"Monsieur, we must not confound prudence with cowardice; prudence is a
virtue."
"And you are very virtuous, are you not, Planchet?"
"Monsieur, is not that the barrel of a musket which glitters yonder? Had
we not better lower our heads?"
"In truth," murmured d’Artagnan, to whom M. de Treville’s recommendation
recurred, "this animal will end by making me afraid." And he put his
horse into a trot.
Planchet followed the movements of his master as if he had been his
shadow, and was soon trotting by his side.
"Are we going to continue this pace all night?" asked Planchet.
"No; you are at your journey’s end."
"How, monsieur! And you?"
"I am going a few steps farther."
"And Monsieur leaves me here alone?"
"You are afraid, Planchet?"
"No; I only beg leave to observe to Monsieur that the night will be very
cold, that chills bring on rheumatism, and that a lackey who has the
rheumatism makes but a poor servant, particularly to a master as active
as Monsieur."
"Well, if you are cold, Planchet, you can go into one of those cabarets
that you see yonder, and be in waiting for me at the door by six o’clock
in the morning."
"Monsieur, I have eaten and drunk respectfully the crown you gave me
this morning, so that I have not a sou left in case I should be cold."
"Here’s half a pistole. Tomorrow morning."
D’Artagnan sprang from his horse, threw the bridle to Planchet, and
departed at a quick pace, folding his cloak around him.
"Good Lord, how cold I am!" cried Planchet, as soon as he had lost sight
of his master; and in such haste was he to warm himself that he went
straight to a house set out with all the attributes of a suburban
tavern, and knocked at the door.
In the meantime d’Artagnan, who had plunged into a bypath, continued his
route and reached St. Cloud; but instead of following the main street he
turned behind the chateau, reached a sort of retired lane, and found
himself soon in front of the pavilion named. It was situated in a very
private spot. A high wall, at the angle of which was the pavilion, ran
along one side of this lane, and on the other was a little garden
connected with a poor cottage which was protected by a hedge from
passers-by.
He gained the place appointed, and as no signal had been given him by
which to announce his presence, he waited.
Not the least noise was to be heard; it might be imagined that he was a
hundred miles from the capital. D’Artagnan leaned against the hedge,
after having cast a glance behind it. Beyond that hedge, that garden,
and that cottage, a dark mist enveloped with its folds that immensity
where Paris slept—a vast void from which glittered a few luminous
points, the funeral stars of that hell!
But for d’Artagnan all aspects were clothed happily, all ideas wore a
smile, all shades were diaphanous. The appointed hour was about to
strike. In fact, at the end of a few minutes the belfry of St. Cloud let
fall slowly ten strokes from its sonorous jaws. There was something
melancholy in this brazen voice pouring out its lamentations in the
middle of the night; but each of those strokes, which made up the
expected hour, vibrated harmoniously to the heart of the young man.
His eyes were fixed upon the little pavilion situated at the angle of
the wall, of which all the windows were closed with shutters, except one
on the first story. Through this window shone a mild light which
silvered the foliage of two or three linden trees which formed a group
outside the park. There could be no doubt that behind this little
window, which threw forth such friendly beams, the pretty Mme. Bonacieux
expected him.
Wrapped in this sweet idea, d’Artagnan waited half an hour without the
least impatience, his eyes fixed upon that charming little abode of
which he could perceive a part of the ceiling with its gilded moldings,
attesting the elegance of the rest of the apartment.
The belfry of St. Cloud sounded half past ten.
This time, without knowing why, d’Artagnan felt a cold shiver run
through his veins. Perhaps the cold began to affect him, and he took a
perfectly physical sensation for a moral impression.
Then the idea seized him that he had read incorrectly, and that the
appointment was for eleven o’clock. He drew near to the window, and
placing himself so that a ray of light should fall upon the letter as he
held it, he drew it from his pocket and read it again; but he had not
been mistaken, the appointment was for ten o’clock. He went and resumed
his post, beginning to be rather uneasy at this silence and this
solitude.
Eleven o’clock sounded.
D’Artagnan began now really to fear that something had happened to Mme.
Bonacieux. He clapped his hands three times—the ordinary signal of
lovers; but nobody replied to him, not even an echo.
He then thought, with a touch of vexation, that perhaps the young woman
had fallen asleep while waiting for him. He approached the wall, and
tried to climb it; but the wall had been recently pointed, and
d’Artagnan could get no hold.
At that moment he thought of the trees, upon whose leaves the light
still shone; and as one of them drooped over the road, he thought that
from its branches he might get a glimpse of the interior of the
pavilion.
The tree was easy to climb. Besides, d’Artagnan was but twenty years
old, and consequently had not yet forgotten his schoolboy habits. In an
instant he was among the branches, and his keen eyes plunged through the
transparent panes into the interior of the pavilion.
It was a strange thing, and one which made d’Artagnan tremble from the
sole of his foot to the roots of his hair, to find that this soft light,
this calm lamp, enlightened a scene of fearful disorder. One of the
windows was broken, the door of the chamber had been beaten in and hung,
split in two, on its hinges. A table, which had been covered with an
elegant supper, was overturned. The decanters broken in pieces, and the
fruits crushed, strewed the floor. Everything in the apartment gave
evidence of a violent and desperate struggle. D’Artagnan even fancied he
could recognize amid this strange disorder, fragments of garments, and
some bloody spots staining the cloth and the curtains. He hastened to
descend into the street, with a frightful beating at his heart; he
wished to see if he could find other traces of violence.
The little soft light shone on in the calmness of the night. d’Artagnan
then perceived a thing that he had not before remarked—for nothing had
led him to the examination—that the ground, trampled here and
hoofmarked there, presented confused traces of men and horses. Besides,
the wheels of a carriage, which appeared to have come from Paris, had
made a deep impression in the soft earth, which did not extend beyond
the pavilion, but turned again toward Paris.
At length d’Artagnan, in pursuing his researches, found near the wall a
woman’s torn glove. This glove, wherever it had not touched the muddy
ground, was of irreproachable odor. It was one of those perfumed gloves
that lovers like to *** from a pretty hand.
As d’Artagnan pursued his investigations, a more abundant and more icy
sweat rolled in large drops from his forehead; his heart was oppressed
by a horrible anguish; his respiration was broken and short. And yet he
said, to reassure himself, that this pavilion perhaps had nothing in
common with Mme. Bonacieux; that the young woman had made an appointment
with him before the pavilion, and not in the pavilion; that she might
have been detained in Paris by her duties, or perhaps by the jealousy of
her husband.
But all these reasons were combated, destroyed, overthrown, by that
feeling of intimate pain which, on certain occasions, takes possession
of our being, and cries to us so as to be understood unmistakably that
some great misfortune is hanging over us.
Then d’Artagnan became almost wild. He ran along the high road, took the
path he had before taken, and reaching the ferry, interrogated the
boatman.
About seven o’clock in the evening, the boatman had taken over a young
woman, wrapped in a black mantle, who appeared to be very anxious not to
be recognized; but entirely on account of her precautions, the boatman
had paid more attention to her and discovered that she was young and
pretty.
There were then, as now, a crowd of young and pretty women who came to
St. Cloud, and who had reasons for not being seen, and yet d’Artagnan
did not for an instant doubt that it was Mme. Bonacieux whom the boatman
had noticed.
D’Artagnan took advantage of the lamp which burned in the cabin of the
ferryman to read the billet of Mme. Bonacieux once again, and satisfy
himself that he had not been mistaken, that the appointment was at St.
Cloud and not elsewhere, before the D’Estrees’s pavilion and not in
another street. Everything conspired to prove to d’Artagnan that his
presentiments had not deceived him, and that a great misfortune had
happened.
He again ran back to the chateau. It appeared to him that something
might have happened at the pavilion in his absence, and that fresh
information awaited him. The lane was still deserted, and the same calm
soft light shone through the window.
D’Artagnan then thought of that cottage, silent and obscure, which had
no doubt seen all, and could tell its tale. The gate of the enclosure
was shut; but he leaped over the hedge, and in spite of the barking of a
chained-up dog, went up to the cabin.
No one answered to his first knocking. A silence of death reigned in the
cabin as in the pavilion; but as the cabin was his last resource, he
knocked again.
It soon appeared to him that he heard a slight noise within—a timid
noise which seemed to tremble lest it should be heard.
Then d’Artagnan ceased knocking, and prayed with an accent so full of
anxiety and promises, terror and cajolery, that his voice was of a
nature to reassure the most fearful. At length an old, worm-eaten
shutter was opened, or rather pushed ajar, but closed again as soon as
the light from a miserable lamp which burned in the corner had shone
upon the baldric, sword belt, and pistol pommels of d’Artagnan.
Nevertheless, rapid as the movement had been, d’Artagnan had had time to
get a glimpse of the head of an old man.
"In the name of heaven!" cried he, "listen to me; I have been waiting
for someone who has not come. I am dying with anxiety. Has anything
particular happened in the neighborhood? Speak!"
The window was again opened slowly, and the same face appeared, only it
was now still more pale than before.
D’Artagnan related his story simply, with the omission of names. He told
how he had a rendezvous with a young woman before that pavilion, and
how, not seeing her come, he had climbed the linden tree, and by the
light of the lamp had seen the disorder of the chamber.
The old man listened attentively, making a sign only that it was all so;
and then, when d’Artagnan had ended, he shook his head with an air that
announced nothing good.
"What do you mean?" cried d’Artagnan. "In the name of heaven, explain
yourself!"
"Oh! Monsieur," said the old man, "ask me nothing; for if I dared tell
you what I have seen, certainly no good would befall me."
"You have, then, seen something?" replied d’Artagnan. "In that case, in
the name of heaven," continued he, throwing him a pistole, "tell me what
you have seen, and I will pledge you the word of a gentleman that not
one of your words shall escape from my heart."
The old man read so much truth and so much grief in the face of the
young man that he made him a sign to listen, and repeated in a low
voice: "It was scarcely nine o’clock when I heard a noise in the street,
and was wondering what it could be, when on coming to my door, I found
that somebody was endeavoring to open it. As I am very poor and am not
afraid of being robbed, I went and opened the gate and saw three men at
a few paces from it. In the shadow was a carriage with two horses, and
some saddlehorses. These horses evidently belonged to the three men, who
were dressed as cavaliers. ’Ah, my worthy gentlemen,’ cried I, ’what do
you want?’ ’You must have a ladder?’ said he who appeared to be the
leader of the party. ’Yes, monsieur, the one with which I gather my
fruit.’ ’Lend it to us, and go into your house again; there is a crown
for the annoyance we have caused you. Only remember this—if you speak a
word of what you may see or what you may hear (for you will look and you
will listen, I am quite sure, however we may threaten you), you are
lost.’ At these words he threw me a crown, which I picked up, and he
took the ladder. After shutting the gate behind them, I pretended to
return to the house, but I immediately went out a back door, and
stealing along in the shade of the hedge, I gained yonder clump of
elder, from which I could hear and see everything. The three men brought
the carriage up quietly, and took out of it a little man, stout, short,
elderly, and commonly dressed in clothes of a dark color, who ascended
the ladder very carefully, looked suspiciously in at the window of the
pavilion, came down as quietly as he had gone up, and whispered, ’It is
she!’ Immediately, he who had spoken to me approached the door of the
pavilion, opened it with a key he had in his hand, closed the door and
disappeared, while at the same time the other two men ascended the
ladder. The little old man remained at the coach door; the coachman took
care of his horses, the lackey held the saddlehorses. All at once great
cries resounded in the pavilion, and a woman came to the window, and
opened it, as if to throw herself out of it; but as soon as she
perceived the other two men, she fell back and they went into the
chamber. Then I saw no more; but I heard the noise of breaking
furniture. The woman screamed, and cried for help; but her cries were
soon stifled. Two of the men appeared, bearing the woman in their arms,
and carried her to the carriage, into which the little old man got after
her. The leader closed the window, came out an instant after by the
door, and satisfied himself that the woman was in the carriage. His two
companions were already on horseback. He sprang into his saddle; the
lackey took his place by the coachman; the carriage went off at a quick
pace, escorted by the three horsemen, and all was over. From that moment
I have neither seen nor heard anything."
D’Artagnan, entirely overcome by this terrible story, remained
motionless and mute, while all the demons of anger and jealousy were
howling in his heart.
"But, my good gentleman," resumed the old man, upon whom this mute
despair certainly produced a greater effect than cries and tears would
have done, "do not take on so; they did not kill her, and that’s a
comfort."
"Can you guess," said d’Artagnan, "who was the man who headed this
infernal expedition?"
"I don’t know him."
"But as you spoke to him you must have seen him."
"Oh, it’s a description you want?"
"Exactly so."
"A tall, dark man, with black mustaches, dark eyes, and the air of a
gentleman."
"That’s the man!" cried d’Artagnan, "again he, forever he! He is my
demon, apparently. And the other?"
"Which?"
"The short one."
"Oh, he was not a gentleman, I’ll answer for it; besides, he did not
wear a sword, and the others treated him with small consideration."
"Some lackey," murmured d’Artagnan. "Poor woman, poor woman, what have
they done with you?"
"You have promised to be secret, my good monsieur?" said the old man.
"And I renew my promise. Be easy, I am a gentleman. A gentleman has but
his word, and I have given you mine."
With a heavy heart, d’Artagnan again bent his way toward the ferry.
Sometimes he hoped it could not be Mme. Bonacieux, and that he should
find her next day at the Louvre; sometimes he feared she had had an
intrigue with another, who, in a jealous fit, had surprised her and
carried her off. His mind was torn by doubt, grief, and despair.
"Oh, if I had my three friends here," cried he, "I should have, at
least, some hopes of finding her; but who knows what has become of
them?"
It was past midnight; the next thing was to find Planchet. d’Artagnan
went successively into all the cabarets in which there was a light, but
could not find Planchet in any of them.
At the sixth he began to reflect that the search was rather dubious.
D’Artagnan had appointed six o’clock in the morning for his lackey, and
wherever he might be, he was right.
Besides, it came into the young man’s mind that by remaining in the
environs of the spot on which this sad event had passed, he would,
perhaps, have some light thrown upon the mysterious affair. At the sixth
cabaret, then, as we said, d’Artagnan stopped, asked for a bottle of
wine of the best quality, and placing himself in the darkest corner of
the room, determined thus to wait till daylight; but this time again his
hopes were disappointed, and although he listened with all his ears, he
heard nothing, amid the oaths, coarse jokes, and abuse which passed
between the laborers, servants, and carters who comprised the honorable
society of which he formed a part, which could put him upon the least
track of her who had been stolen from him. He was compelled, then, after
having swallowed the contents of his bottle, to pass the time as well as
to evade suspicion, to fall into the easiest position in his corner and
to sleep, whether well or ill. D’Artagnan, be it remembered, was only
twenty years old, and at that age sleep has its imprescriptible rights
which it imperiously insists upon, even with the saddest hearts.
Toward six o’clock d’Artagnan awoke with that uncomfortable feeling
which generally accompanies the break of day after a bad night. He was
not long in making his toilet. He examined himself to see if advantage
had been taken of his sleep, and having found his diamond ring on his
finger, his purse in his pocket, and his pistols in his belt, he rose,
paid for his bottle, and went out to try if he could have any better
luck in his search after his lackey than he had had the night before.
The first thing he perceived through the damp gray mist was honest
Planchet, who, with the two horses in hand, awaited him at the door of a
little blind cabaret, before which d’Artagnan had passed without even a
suspicion of its existence.
End of Chapter 24
25 PORTHOS
Instead of returning directly home, d’Artagnan alighted at the door of
M. de Treville, and ran quickly up the stairs. This time he had decided
to relate all that had passed. M. de Treville would doubtless give him
good advice as to the whole affair. Besides, as M. de Treville saw the
queen almost daily, he might be able to draw from her Majesty some
intelligence of the poor young woman, whom they were doubtless making
pay very dearly for her devotedness to her mistress.
M de Treville listened to the young man’s account with a seriousness
which proved that he saw something else in this adventure besides a love
affair. When d’Artagnan had finished, he said, "Hum! All this savors of
his Eminence, a league off."
"But what is to be done?" said d’Artagnan.
"Nothing, absolutely nothing, at present, but quitting Paris, as I told
you, as soon as possible. I will see the queen; I will relate to her the
details of the disappearance of this poor woman, of which she is no
doubt ignorant. These details will guide her on her part, and on your
return, I shall perhaps have some good news to tell you. Rely on me."
D’Artagnan knew that, although a Gascon, M. de Treville was not in the
habit of making promises, and that when by chance he did promise, he
more than kept his word. He bowed to him, then, full of gratitude for
the past and for the future; and the worthy captain, who on his side
felt a lively interest in this young man, so brave and so resolute,
pressed his hand kindly, wishing him a pleasant journey.
Determined to put the advice of M. de Treville in practice instantly,
d’Artagnan directed his course toward the Rue des Fossoyeurs, in order
to superintend the packing of his valise. On approaching the house, he
perceived M. Bonacieux in morning costume, standing at his threshold.
All that the prudent Planchet had said to him the preceding evening
about the sinister character of the old man recurred to the mind of
d’Artagnan, who looked at him with more attention than he had done
before. In fact, in addition to that yellow, sickly paleness which
indicates the insinuation of the bile in the blood, and which might,
besides, be accidental, d’Artagnan remarked something perfidiously
significant in the play of the wrinkled features of his countenance. A
rogue does not laugh in the same way that an honest man does; a
hypocrite does not shed the tears of a man of good faith. All falsehood
is a mask; and however well made the mask may be, with a little
attention we may always succeed in distinguishing it from the true face.
It appeared, then, to d’Artagnan that M. Bonacieux wore a mask, and
likewise that that mask was most disagreeable to look upon. In
consequence of this feeling of repugnance, he was about to pass without
speaking to him, but, as he had done the day before, M. Bonacieux
accosted him.
"Well, young man," said he, "we appear to pass rather gay nights! Seven
o’clock in the morning! PESTE! You seem to reverse ordinary customs, and
come home at the hour when other people are going out."
"No one can reproach you for anything of the kind, Monsieur Bonacieux,"
said the young man; "you are a model for regular people. It is true that
when a man possesses a young and pretty wife, he has no need to seek
happiness elsewhere. Happiness comes to meet him, does it not, Monsieur
Bonacieux?"
Bonacieux became as pale as death, and grinned a ghastly smile.
"Ah, ah!" said Bonacieux, "you are a jocular companion! But where the
devil were you gladding last night, my young master? It does not appear
to be very clean in the crossroads."
D’Artagnan glanced down at his boots, all covered with mud; but that
same glance fell upon the shoes and stockings of the mercer, and it
might have been said they had been dipped in the same mud heap. Both
were stained with splashes of mud of the same appearance.
Then a sudden idea crossed the mind of d’Artagnan. That little stout
man, short and elderly, that sort of lackey, dressed in dark clothes,
treated without ceremony by the men wearing swords who composed the
escort, was Bonacieux himself. The husband had presided at the abduction
of his wife.
A terrible inclination seized d’Artagnan to grasp the mercer by the
throat and strangle him; but, as we have said, he was a very prudent
youth, and he restrained himself. However, the revolution which appeared
upon his countenance was so visible that Bonacieux was terrified at it,
and he endeavored to draw back a step or two; but as he was standing
before the half of the door which was shut, the obstacle compelled him
to keep his place.
"Ah, but you are joking, my worthy man!" said d’Artagnan. "It appears to
me that if my boots need a sponge, your stockings and shoes stand in
equal need of a brush. May you not have been philandering a little also,
Monsieur Bonacieux? Oh, the devil! That’s unpardonable in a man of your
age, and who besides, has such a pretty wife as yours."
"Oh, Lord! no," said Bonacieux, "but yesterday I went to St. Mande to
make some inquiries after a servant, as I cannot possibly do without
one; and the roads were so bad that I brought back all this mud, which I
have not yet had time to remove."
The place named by Bonacieux as that which had been the object of his
journey was a fresh proof in support of the suspicions d’Artagnan had
conceived. Bonacieux had named Mande because Mande was in an exactly
opposite direction from St. Cloud. This probability afforded him his
first consolation. If Bonacieux knew where his wife was, one might, by
extreme means, force the mercer to open his teeth and let his secret
escape. The question, then, was how to change this probability into a
certainty.
"Pardon, my dear Monsieur Bonacieux, if I don’t stand upon ceremony,"
said d’Artagnan, "but nothing makes one so thirsty as want of sleep. I
am parched with thirst. Allow me to take a glass of water in your
apartment; you know that is never refused among neighbors."
Without waiting for the permission of his host, d’Artagnan went quickly
into the house, and cast a rapid glance at the bed. It had not been
used. Bonacieux had not been abed. He had only been back an hour or two;
he had accompanied his wife to the place of her confinement, or else at
least to the first relay.
"Thanks, Monsieur Bonacieux," said d’Artagnan, emptying his glass, "that
is all I wanted of you. I will now go up into my apartment. I will make
Planchet brush my boots; and when he has done, I will, if you like, send
him to you to brush your shoes."
He left the mercer quite astonished at his singular farewell, and asking
himself if he had not been a little inconsiderate.
At the top of the stairs he found Planchet in a great fright.
"Ah, monsieur!" cried Planchet, as soon as he perceived his master,
"here is more trouble. I thought you would never come in."
"What’s the matter now, Planchet?" demanded d’Artagnan.
"Oh! I give you a hundred, I give you a thousand times to guess,
monsieur, the visit I received in your absence."
"When?"
"About half an hour ago, while you were at Monsieur de Treville’s."
"Who has been here? Come, speak."
"Monsieur de Cavois."
"Monsieur de Cavois?"
"In person."
"The captain of the cardinal’s Guards?"
"Himself."
"Did he come to arrest me?"
"I have no doubt that he did, monsieur, for all his wheedling manner."
"Was he so sweet, then?"
"Indeed, he was all honey, monsieur."
"Indeed!"
"He came, he said, on the part of his Eminence, who wished you well, and
to beg you to follow him to the Palais-Royal." [*]
_*It was called the Palais-Cardinal before Richelieu gave it to
the King._
"What did you answer him?"
"That the thing was impossible, seeing that you were not at home, as he
could see."
"Well, what did he say then?"
"That you must not fail to call upon him in the course of the day; and
then he added in a low voice, ’Tell your master that his Eminence is
very well disposed toward him, and that his fortune perhaps depends upon
this interview.’"
"The snare is rather MALADROIT for the cardinal," replied the young man,
smiling.
"Oh, I saw the snare, and I answered you would be quite in despair on
your return.
"’Where has he gone?’ asked Monsieur de Cavois.
"’To Troyes, in Champagne,’ I answered.
"’And when did he set out?’
"’Yesterday evening.’"
"Planchet, my friend," interrupted d’Artagnan, "you are really a
precious fellow."
"You will understand, monsieur, I thought there would be still time, if
you wish, to see Monsieur de Cavois to contradict me by saying you were
not yet gone. The falsehood would then lie at my door, and as I am not a
gentleman, I may be allowed to lie."
"Be of good heart, Planchet, you shall preserve your reputation as a
veracious man. In a quarter of an hour we set off."
"That’s the advice I was about to give Monsieur; and where are we going,
may I ask, without being too curious?"
"PARDIEU! In the opposite direction to that which you said I was gone.
Besides, are you not as anxious to learn news of Grimaud, Mousqueton,
and Bazin as I am to know what has become of Athos, Porthos, and
Aramis?"
"Yes, monsieur," said Planchet, "and I will go as soon as you please.
Indeed, I think provincial air will suit us much better just now than
the air of Paris. So then—"
"So then, pack up our luggage, Planchet, and let us be off. On my part,
I will go out with my hands in my pockets, that nothing may be
suspected. You may join me at the Hotel des Gardes. By the way,
Planchet, I think you are right with respect to our host, and that he is
decidedly a frightfully low wretch."
"Ah, monsieur, you may take my word when I tell you anything. I am a
physiognomist, I assure you."
D’Artagnan went out first, as had been agreed upon. Then, in order that
he might have nothing to reproach himself with, he directed his steps,
for the last time, toward the residences of his three friends. No news
had been received of them; only a letter, all perfumed and of an elegant
writing in small characters, had come for Aramis. D’Artagnan took charge
of it. Ten minutes afterward Planchet joined him at the stables of the
Hotel des Gardes. D’Artagnan, in order that there might be no time lost,
had saddled his horse himself.
"That’s well," said he to Planchet, when the latter added the
portmanteau to the equipment. "Now saddle the other three horses."
"Do you think, then, monsieur, that we shall travel faster with two
horses apiece?" said Planchet, with his shrewd air.
"No, Monsieur Jester," replied d’Artagnan; "but with our four horses we
may bring back our three friends, if we should have the good fortune to
find them living."
"Which is a great chance," replied Planchet, "but we must not despair of
the mercy of God."
"Amen!" said d’Artagnan, getting into his saddle.
As they went from the Hotel des Gardes, they separated, leaving the
street at opposite ends, one having to quit Paris by the Barriere de la
Villette and the other by the Barriere Montmartre, to meet again beyond
St. Denis—a strategic maneuver which, having been executed with equal
punctuality, was crowned with the most fortunate results. D’Artagnan and
Planchet entered Pierrefitte together.
Planchet was more courageous, it must be admitted, by day than by night.
His natural prudence, however, never forsook him for a single instant.
He had forgotten not one of the incidents of the first journey, and he
looked upon everybody he met on the road as an enemy. It followed that
his hat was forever in his hand, which procured him some severe
reprimands from d’Artagnan, who feared that his excess of politeness
would lead people to think he was the lackey of a man of no consequence.
Nevertheless, whether the passengers were really touched by the urbanity
of Planchet or whether this time nobody was posted on the young man’s
road, our two travelers arrived at Chantilly without any accident, and
alighted at the tavern of Great St. Martin, the same at which they had
stopped on their first journey.
The host, on seeing a young man followed by a lackey with two extra
horses, advanced respectfully to the door. Now, as they had already
traveled eleven leagues, d’Artagnan thought it time to stop, whether
Porthos were or were not in the inn. Perhaps it would not be prudent to
ask at once what had become of the Musketeer. The result of these
reflections was that d’Artagnan, without asking information of any kind,
alighted, commended the horses to the care of his lackey, entered a
small room destined to receive those who wished to be alone, and desired
the host to bring him a bottle of his best wine and as good a breakfast
as possible—a desire which further corroborated the high opinion the
innkeeper had formed of the traveler at first sight.
D’Artagnan was therefore served with miraculous celerity. The regiment
of the Guards was recruited among the first gentlemen of the kingdom;
and d’Artagnan, followed by a lackey, and traveling with four
magnificent horses, despite the simplicity of his uniform, could not
fail to make a sensation. The host desired himself to serve him; which
d’Artagnan perceiving, ordered two glasses to be brought, and commenced
the following conversation.
"My faith, my good host," said d’Artagnan, filling the two glasses, "I
asked for a bottle of your best wine, and if you have deceived me, you
will be punished in what you have sinned; for seeing that I hate
drinking my myself, you shall drink with me. Take your glass, then, and
let us drink. But what shall we drink to, so as to avoid wounding any
susceptibility? Let us drink to the prosperity of your establishment."
"Your Lordship does me much honor," said the host, "and I thank you
sincerely for your kind wish."
"But don’t mistake," said d’Artagnan, "there is more selfishness in my
toast than perhaps you may think—for it is only in prosperous
establishments that one is well received. In hotels that do not
flourish, everything is in confusion, and the traveler is a victim to
the embarrassments of his host. Now, I travel a great deal, particularly
on this road, and I wish to see all innkeepers making a fortune."
"It seems to me," said the host, "that this is not the first time I have
had the honor of seeing Monsieur."
"Bah, I have passed perhaps ten times through Chantilly, and out of the
ten times I have stopped three or four times at your house at least. Why
I was here only ten or twelve days ago. I was conducting some friends,
Musketeers, one of whom, by the by, had a dispute with a stranger—a man
who sought a quarrel with him, for I don’t know what."
"Exactly so," said the host; "I remember it perfectly. It is not
Monsieur Porthos that your Lordship means?"
"Yes, that is my companion’s name. My God, my dear host, tell me if
anything has happened to him?"
"Your Lordship must have observed that he could not continue his
journey."
"Why, to be sure, he promised to rejoin us, and we have seen nothing of
him."
"He has done us the honor to remain here."
"What, he had done you the honor to remain here?"
"Yes, monsieur, in this house; and we are even a little uneasy—"
"On what account?"
"Of certain expenses he has contracted."
"Well, but whatever expenses he may have incurred, I am sure he is in a
condition to pay them."
"Ah, monsieur, you infuse genuine balm into my blood. We have made
considerable advances; and this very morning the surgeon declared that
if Monsieur Porthos did not pay him, he should look to me, as it was I
who had sent for him."
"Porthos is wounded, then?"
"I cannot tell you, monsieur."
"What! You cannot tell me? Surely you ought to be able to tell me better
than any other person."
"Yes; but in our situation we must not say all we know—particularly as
we have been warned that our ears should answer for our tongues."
"Well, can I see Porthos?"
"Certainly, monsieur. Take the stairs on your right; go up the first
flight and knock at Number One. Only warn him that it is you."
"Why should I do that?"
"Because, monsieur, some mischief might happen to you."
"Of what kind, in the name of wonder?"
"Monsieur Porthos may imagine you belong to the house, and in a fit of
passion might run his sword through you or blow out your brains."
"What have you done to him, then?"
"We have asked him for money."
"The devil! Ah, I can understand that. It is a demand that Porthos takes
very ill when he is not in funds; but I know he must be so at present."
"We thought so, too, monsieur. As our house is carried on very
regularly, and we make out our bills every week, at the end of eight
days we presented our account; but it appeared we had chosen an unlucky
moment, for at the first word on the subject, he sent us to all the
devils. It is true he had been playing the day before."
"Playing the day before! And with whom?"
"Lord, who can say, monsieur? With some gentleman who was traveling this
way, to whom he proposed a game of LANSQUENET."
"That’s it, then, and the foolish fellow lost all he had?"
"Even to his horse, monsieur; for when the gentleman was about to set
out, we perceived that his lackey was saddling Monsieur Porthos’s horse,
as well as his master’s. When we observed this to him, he told us all to
trouble ourselves about our own business, as this horse belonged to him.
We also informed Monsieur Porthos of what was going on; but he told us
we were scoundrels to doubt a gentleman’s word, and that as he had said
the horse was his, it must be so."
"That’s Porthos all over," murmured d’Artagnan.
"Then," continued the host, "I replied that as from the moment we seemed
not likely to come to a good understanding with respect to payment, I
hoped that he would have at least the kindness to grant the favor of his
custom to my brother host of the Golden Eagle; but Monsieur Porthos
replied that, my house being the best, he should remain where he was.
This reply was too flattering to allow me to insist on his departure. I
confined myself then to begging him to give up his chamber, which is the
handsomest in the hotel, and to be satisfied with a pretty little room
on the third floor; but to this Monsieur Porthos replied that as he
every moment expected his mistress, who was one of the greatest ladies
in the court, I might easily comprehend that the chamber he did me the
honor to occupy in my house was itself very mean for the visit of such a
personage. Nevertheless, while acknowledging the truth of what he said,
I thought proper to insist; but without even giving himself the trouble
to enter into any discussion with me, he took one of his pistols, laid
it on his table, day and night, and said that at the first word that
should be spoken to him about removing, either within the house or out
of it, he would blow out the brains of the person who should be so
imprudent as to meddle with a matter which only concerned himself. Since
that time, monsieur, nobody entered his chamber but his servant."
"What! Mousqueton is here, then?"
"Oh, yes, monsieur. Five days after your departure, he came back, and in
a very bad condition, too. It appears that he had met with
disagreeableness, likewise, on his journey. Unfortunately, he is more
nimble than his master; so that for the sake of his master, he puts us
all under his feet, and as he thinks we might refuse what he asked for,
he takes all he wants without asking at all."
"The fact is," said d’Artagnan, "I have always observed a great degree
of intelligence and devotedness in Mousqueton."
"That is possible, monsieur; but suppose I should happen to be brought
in contact, even four times a year, with such intelligence and
devotedness—why, I should be a ruined man!"
"No, for Porthos will pay you."
"Hum!" said the host, in a doubtful tone.
"The favorite of a great lady will not be allowed to be inconvenienced
for such a paltry sum as he owes you."
"If I durst say what I believe on that head—"
"What you believe?"
"I ought rather to say, what I know."
"What you know?"
"And even what I am sure of."
"And of what are you so sure?"
"I would say that I know this great lady."
"You?"
"Yes; I."
"And how do you know her?"
"Oh, monsieur, if I could believe I might trust in your discretion."
"Speak! By the word of a gentleman, you shall have no cause to repent of
your confidence."
"Well, monsieur, you understand that uneasiness makes us do many
things."
"What have you done?"
"Oh, nothing which was not right in the character of a creditor."
"Well?"
"Monsieur Porthos gave us a note for his duchess, ordering us to put it
in the post. This was before his servant came. As he could not leave his
chamber, it was necessary to charge us with this commission."
"And then?"
"Instead of putting the letter in the post, which is never safe, I took
advantage of the journey of one of my lads to Paris, and ordered him to
convey the letter to this duchess himself. This was fulfilling the
intentions of Monsieur Porthos, who had desired us to be so careful of
this letter, was it not?"
"Nearly so."
"Well, monsieur, do you know who this great lady is?"
"No; I have heard Porthos speak of her, that’s all."
"Do you know who this pretended duchess is?
"I repeat to you, I don’t know her."
"Why, she is the old wife of a procurator* of the Chatelet, monsieur,
named Madame Coquenard, who, although she is at least fifty, still gives
herself jealous airs. It struck me as very odd that a princess should
live in the Rue aux Ours."
_* Attorney_
"But how do you know all this?"
"Because she flew into a great passion on receiving the letter, saying
that Monsieur Porthos was a weathercock, and that she was sure it was
for some woman he had received this wound."
"Has he been wounded, then?"
"Oh, good Lord! What have I said?"
"You said that Porthos had received a sword cut."
"Yes, but he has forbidden me so strictly to say so."
"And why so."
"Zounds, monsieur! Because he had boasted that he would perforate the
stranger with whom you left him in dispute; whereas the stranger, on the
contrary, in spite of all his rodomontades quickly threw him on his
back. As Monsieur Porthos is a very boastful man, he insists that nobody
shall know he has received this wound except the duchess, whom he
endeavored to interest by an account of his adventure."
"It is a wound that confines him to his bed?"
"Ah, and a master stroke, too, I assure you. Your friend’s soul must
stick tight to his body."
"Were you there, then?"
"Monsieur, I followed them from curiosity, so that I saw the combat
without the combatants seeing me."
"And what took place?"
"Oh! The affair was not long, I assure you. They placed themselves on
guard; the stranger made a feint and a lunge, and that so rapidly that
when Monsieur Porthos came to the PARADE, he had already three inches of
steel in his breast. He immediately fell backward. The stranger placed
the point of his sword at his throat; and Monsieur Porthos, finding
himself at the mercy of his adversary, acknowledged himself conquered.
Upon which the stranger asked his name, and learning that it was
Porthos, and not d’Artagnan, he assisted him to rise, brought him back
to the hotel, mounted his horse, and disappeared."
"So it was with Monsieur d’Artagnan this stranger meant to quarrel?"
"It appears so."
"And do you know what has become of him?"
"No, I never saw him until that moment, and have not seen him since."
"Very well; I know all that I wish to know. Porthos’s chamber is, you
say, on the first story, Number One?"
"Yes, monsieur, the handsomest in the inn—a chamber that I could have
let ten times over."
"Bah! Be satisfied," said d’Artagnan, laughing, "Porthos will pay you
with the money of the Duchess Coquenard."
"Oh, monsieur, procurator’s wife or duchess, if she will but loosen her
pursestrings, it will be all the same; but she positively answered that
she was tired of the exigencies and infidelities of Monsieur Porthos,
and that she would not send him a denier."
"And did you convey this answer to your guest?"
"We took good care not to do that; he would have found in what fashion
we had executed his commission."
"So that he still expects his money?"
"Oh, Lord, yes, monsieur! Yesterday he wrote again; but it was his
servant who this time put the letter in the post."
"Do you say the procurator’s wife is old and ugly?"
"Fifty at least, monsieur, and not at all handsome, according to
Pathaud’s account."
"In that case, you may be quite at ease; she will soon be softened.
Besides, Porthos cannot owe you much."
"How, not much! Twenty good pistoles, already, without reckoning the
doctor. He denies himself nothing; it may easily be seen he has been
accustomed to live well."
"Never mind; if his mistress abandons him, he will find friends, I will
answer for it. So, my dear host, be not uneasy, and continue to take all
the care of him that his situation requires."
"Monsieur has promised me not to open his mouth about the procurator’s
wife, and not to say a word of the wound?"
"That’s agreed; you have my word."
"Oh, he would kill me!"
"Don’t be afraid; he is not so much of a devil as he appears."
Saying these words, d’Artagnan went upstairs, leaving his host a little
better satisfied with respect to two things in which he appeared to be
very much interested—his debt and his life.
At the top of the stairs, upon the most conspicuous door of the
corridor, was traced in black ink a gigantic number "1." d’Artagnan
knocked, and upon the bidding to come in which came from inside, he
entered the chamber.
Porthos was in bed, and was playing a game at LANSQUENET with
Mousqueton, to keep his hand in; while a spit loaded with partridges was
turning before the fire, and on each side of a large chimneypiece, over
two chafing dishes, were boiling two stewpans, from which exhaled a
double odor of rabbit and fish stews, rejoicing to the smell. In
addition to this he perceived that the top of a wardrobe and the marble
of a commode were covered with empty bottles.
At the sight of his friend, Porthos uttered a loud cry of joy; and
Mousqueton, rising respectfully, yielded his place to him, and went to
give an eye to the two stewpans, of which he appeared to have the
particular inspection.
"Ah, PARDIEU! Is that you?" said Porthos to d’Artagnan. "You are right
welcome. Excuse my not coming to meet you; but," added he, looking at
d’Artagnan with a certain degree of uneasiness, "you know what has
happened to me?"
"No."
"Has the host told you nothing, then?"
"I asked after you, and came up as soon as I could."
Porthos seemed to breathe more freely.
"And what has happened to you, my dear Porthos?" continued d’Artagnan.
"Why, on making a thrust at my adversary, whom I had already hit three
times, and whom I meant to finish with the fourth, I put my foot on a
stone, slipped, and strained my knee."
"Truly?"
"Honor! Luckily for the rascal, for I should have left him dead on the
spot, I assure you."
"And what has became of him?"
"Oh, I don’t know; he had enough, and set off without waiting for the
rest. But you, my dear d’Artagnan, what has happened to you?"
"So that this strain of the knee," continued d’Artagnan, "my dear
Porthos, keeps you in bed?"
"My God, that’s all. I shall be about again in a few days."
"Why did you not have yourself conveyed to Paris? You must be cruelly
bored here."
"That was my intention; but, my dear friend, I have one thing to confess
to you."
"What’s that?"
"It is that as I was cruelly bored, as you say, and as I had the
seventy-five pistoles in my pocket which you had distributed to me, in
order to amuse myself I invited a gentleman who was traveling this way
to walk up, and proposed a cast of dice. He accepted my challenge, and,
my faith, my seventy-five pistoles passed from my pocket to his, without
reckoning my horse, which he won into the bargain. But you, my dear
d’Artagnan?"
"What can you expect, my dear Porthos; a man is not privileged in all
ways," said d’Artagnan. "You know the proverb ’Unlucky at play, lucky in
love.’ You are too fortunate in your love for play not to take its
revenge. What consequence can the reverses of fortune be to you? Have
you not, happy rogue that you are—have you not your duchess, who cannot
fail to come to your aid?"
"Well, you see, my dear d’Artagnan, with what ill luck I play," replied
Porthos, with the most careless air in the world. "I wrote to her to
send me fifty louis or so, of which I stood absolutely in need on
account of my accident."
"Well?"
"Well, she must be at her country seat, for she has not answered me."
"Truly?"
"No; so I yesterday addressed another epistle to her, still more
pressing than the first. But you are here, my dear fellow, let us speak
of you. I confess I began to be very uneasy on your account."
"But your host behaves very well toward you, as it appears, my dear
Porthos," said d’Artagnan, directing the sick man’s attention to the
full stewpans and the empty bottles.
"So, so," replied Porthos. "Only three or four days ago the impertinent
jackanapes gave me his bill, and I was forced to turn both him and his
bill out of the door; so that I am here something in the fashion of a
conqueror, holding my position, as it were, my conquest. So you see,
being in constant fear of being forced from that position, I am armed to
the teeth."
"And yet," said d’Artagnan, laughing, "it appears to me that from time
to time you must make SORTIES." And he again pointed to the bottles and
the stewpans.
"Not I, unfortunately!" said Porthos. "This miserable strain confines me
to my bed; but Mousqueton forages, and brings in provisions. Friend
Mousqueton, you see that we have a reinforcement, and we must have an
increase of supplies."
"Mousqueton," said d’Artagnan, "you must render me a service."
"What, monsieur?"
"You must give your recipe to Planchet. I may be besieged in my turn,
and I shall not be sorry for him to be able to let me enjoy the same
advantages with which you gratify your master."
"Lord, monsieur! There is nothing more easy," said Mousqueton, with a
modest air. "One only needs to be sharp, that’s all. I was brought up in
the country, and my father in his leisure time was something of a
poacher."
"And what did he do the rest of his time?"
"Monsieur, he carried on a trade which I have always thought
satisfactory."
"Which?"
"As it was a time of war between the Catholics and the Huguenots, and as
he saw the Catholics exterminate the Huguenots and the Huguenots
exterminate the Catholics—all in the name of religion—he adopted a
mixed belief which permitted him to be sometimes Catholic, sometimes a
Huguenot. Now, he was accustomed to walk with his fowling piece on his
shoulder, behind the hedges which border the roads, and when he saw a
Catholic coming alone, the Protestant religion immediately prevailed in
his mind. He lowered his gun in the direction of the traveler; then,
when he was within ten paces of him, he commenced a conversation which
almost always ended by the traveler’s abandoning his purse to save his
life. It goes without saying that when he saw a Huguenot coming, he felt
himself filled with such ardent Catholic zeal that he could not
understand how, a quarter of an hour before, he had been able to have
any doubts upon the superiority of our holy religion. For my part,
monsieur, I am Catholic—my father, faithful to his principles, having
made my elder brother a Huguenot."
"And what was the end of this worthy man?" asked d’Artagnan.
"Oh, of the most unfortunate kind, monsieur. One day he was surprised in
a lonely road between a Huguenot and a Catholic, with both of whom he
had before had business, and who both knew him again; so they united
against him and hanged him on a tree. Then they came and boasted of
their fine exploit in the cabaret of the next village, where my brother
and I were drinking."
"And what did you do?" said d’Artagnan.
"We let them tell their story out," replied Mousqueton. "Then, as in
leaving the cabaret they took different directions, my brother went and
hid himself on the road of the Catholic, and I on that of the Huguenot.
Two hours after, all was over; we had done the business of both,
admiring the foresight of our poor father, who had taken the precaution
to bring each of us up in a different religion."
"Well, I must allow, as you say, your father was a very intelligent
fellow. And you say in his leisure moments the worthy man was a
poacher?"
"Yes, monsieur, and it was he who taught me to lay a snare and ground a
line. The consequence is that when I saw our laborers, which did not at
all suit two such delicate stomachs as ours, I had recourse to a little
of my old trade. While walking near the wood of Monsieur le Prince, I
laid a few snare in the runs; and while reclining on the banks of his
Highness’s pieces of water, I slipped a few lines into his fish ponds.
So that now, thanks be to God, we do not want, as Monsieur can testify,
for partridges, rabbits, carp or eels—all light, wholesome food,
suitable for the sick."
"But the wine," said d’Artagnan, "who furnishes the wine? Your host?"
"That is to say, yes and no."
"How yes and no?"
"He furnishes it, it is true, but he does not know that he has that
honor."
"Explain yourself, Mousqueton; your conversation is full of instructive
things."
"That is it, monsieur. It has so chanced that I met with a Spaniard in
my peregrinations who had seen many countries, and among them the New
World."
"What connection can the New World have with the bottles which are on
the commode and the wardrobe?"
"Patience, monsieur, everything will come in its turn."
"This Spaniard had in his service a lackey who had accompanied him in
his voyage to Mexico. This lackey was my compatriot; and we became the
more intimate from there being many resemblances of character between
us. We loved sporting of all kinds better than anything; so that he
related to me how in the plains of the Pampas the natives hunt the tiger
and the wild bull with simple running nooses which they throw to a
distance of twenty or thirty paces the end of a cord with such nicety;
but in face of the proof I was obliged to acknowledge the truth of the
recital. My friend placed a bottle at the distance of thirty paces, and
at each cast he caught the neck of the bottle in his running noose. I
practiced this exercise, and as nature has endowed me with some
faculties, at this day I can throw the lasso with any man in the world.
Well, do you understand, monsieur? Our host has a well-furnished cellar
the key of which never leaves him; only this cellar has a ventilating
hole. Now through this ventilating hole I throw my lasso, and as I now
know in which part of the cellar is the best wine, that’s my point for
sport. You see, monsieur, what the New World has to do with the bottles
which are on the commode and the wardrobe. Now, will you taste our wine,
and without prejudice say what you think of it?"
"Thank you, my friend, thank you; unfortunately, I have just
breakfasted."
"Well," said Porthos, "arrange the table, Mousqueton, and while we
breakfast, d’Artagnan will relate to us what has happened to him during
the ten days since he left us."
"Willingly," said d’Artagnan.
While Porthos and Mousqueton were breakfasting, with the appetites of
convalescents and with that brotherly cordiality which unites men in
misfortune, d’Artagnan related how Aramis, being wounded, was obliged to
stop at Crevecoeur, how he had left Athos fighting at Amiens with four
men who accused him of being a coiner, and how he, d’Artagnan, had been
forced to run the Comtes de Wardes through the body in order to reach
England.
But there the confidence of d’Artagnan stopped. He only added that on
his return from Great Britain he had brought back four magnificent
horses—one for himself, and one for each of his companions; then he
informed Porthos that the one intended for him was already installed in
the stable of the tavern.
At this moment Planchet entered, to inform his master that the horses
were sufficiently refreshed and that it would be possible to sleep at
Clermont.
As d’Artagnan was tolerably reassured with regard to Porthos, and as he
was anxious to obtain news of his two other friends, he held out his
hand to the wounded man, and told him he was about to resume his route
in order to continue his researches. For the rest, as he reckoned upon
returning by the same route in seven or eight days, if Porthos were
still at the Great St. Martin, he would call for him on his way.
Porthos replied that in all probability his sprain would not permit him
to depart yet awhile. Besides, it was necessary he should stay at
Chantilly to wait for the answer from his duchess.
D’Artagnan wished that answer might be prompt and favorable; and having
again recommended Porthos to the care of Mousqueton, and paid his bill
to the host, he resumed his route with Planchet, already relieved of one
of his led horses.
End of Chapter 25
26 ARAMIS AND HIS THESIS
D’Artagnan had said nothing to Porthos of his wound or of his
procurator’s wife. Our Bearnais was a prudent lad, however young he
might be. Consequently he had appeared to believe all that the
vainglorious Musketeer had told him, convinced that no friendship will
hold out against a surprised secret. Besides, we feel always a sort of
mental superiority over those whose lives we know better than they
suppose. In his projects of intrigue for the future, and determined as
he was to make his three friends the instruments of his fortune,
d’Artagnan was not sorry at getting into his grasp beforehand the
invisible strings by which he reckoned upon moving them.
And yet, as he journeyed along, a profound sadness weighed upon his
heart. He thought of that young and pretty Mme. Bonacieux who was to
have paid him the price of his devotedness; but let us hasten to say
that this sadness possessed the young man less from the regret of the
happiness he had missed, than from the fear he entertained that some
serious misfortune had befallen the poor woman. For himself, he had no
doubt she was a victim of the cardinal’s vengeance; and, and as was well
known, the vengeance of his Eminence was terrible. How he had found
grace in the eyes of the minister, he did not know; but without doubt M.
de Cavois would have revealed this to him if the captain of the Guards
had found him at home.
Nothing makes time pass more quickly or more shortens a journey than a
thought which absorbs in itself all the faculties of the organization of
him who thinks. External existence then resembles a sleep of which this
thought is the dream. By its influence, time has no longer measure,
space has no longer distance. We depart from one place, and arrive at
another, that is all. Of the interval passed, nothing remains in the
memory but a vague mist in which a thousand confused images of trees,
mountains, and landscapes are lost. It was as a prey to this
hallucination that d’Artagnan traveled, at whatever pace his horse
pleased, the six or eight leagues that separated Chantilly from
Crevecoeur, without his being able to remember on his arrival in the
village any of the things he had passed or met with on the road.
There only his memory returned to him. He shook his head, perceived the
cabaret at which he had left Aramis, and putting his horse to the trot,
he shortly pulled up at the door.
This time it was not a host but a hostess who received him. d’Artagnan
was a physiognomist. His eye took in at a glance the plump, cheerful
countenance of the mistress of the place, and he at once perceived there
was no occasion for dissembling with her, or of fearing anything from
one blessed with such a joyous physiognomy.
"My good dame," asked d’Artagnan, "can you tell me what has become of
one of my friends, whom we were obliged to leave here about a dozen days
ago?"
"A handsome young man, three- or four-and-twenty years old, mild,
amiable, and well made?"
"That is he—wounded in the shoulder."
"Just so. Well, monsieur, he is still here."
"Ah, PARDIEU! My dear dame," said d’Artagnan, springing from his horse,
and throwing the bridle to Planchet, "you restore me to life; where is
this dear Aramis? Let me embrace him, I am in a hurry to see him again."
"Pardon, monsieur, but I doubt whether he can see you at this moment."
"Why so? Has he a lady with him?"
"Jesus! What do you mean by that? Poor lad! No, monsieur, he has not a
lady with him."
"With whom is he, then?"
"With the curate of Montdidier and the superior of the Jesuits of
Amiens."
"Good heavens!" cried d’Artagnan, "is the poor fellow worse, then?"
"No, monsieur, quite the contrary; but after his illness grace touched
him, and he determined to take orders."
"That’s it!" said d’Artagnan, "I had forgotten that he was only a
Musketeer for a time."
"Monsieur still insists upon seeing him?"
"More than ever."
"Well, monsieur has only to take the right-hand staircase in the
courtyard, and knock at Number Five on the second floor."
D’Artagnan walked quickly in the direction indicated, and found one of
those exterior staircases that are still to be seen in the yards of our
old-fashioned taverns. But there was no getting at the place of sojourn
of the future abbe; the defiles of the chamber of Aramis were as well
guarded as the gardens of Armida. Bazin was stationed in the corridor,
and barred his passage with the more intrepidity that, after many years
of trial, Bazin found himself near a result of which he had ever been
ambitious.
In fact, the dream of poor Bazin had always been to serve a churchman;
and he awaited with impatience the moment, always in the future, when
Aramis would throw aside the uniform and assume the cassock. The
daily-renewed promise of the young man that the moment would not long be
delayed, had alone kept him in the service of a Musketeer—a service in
which, he said, his soul was in constant jeopardy.
Bazin was then at the height of joy. In all probability, this time his
master would not retract. The union of physical pain with moral
uneasiness had produced the effect so long desired. Aramis, suffering at
once in body and mind, had at length fixed his eyes and his thoughts
upon religion, and he had considered as a warning from heaven the double
accident which had happened to him; that is to say, the sudden
disappearance of his mistress and the wound in his shoulder.
It may be easily understood that in the present disposition of his
master nothing could be more disagreeable to Bazin than the arrival of
d’Artagnan, which might cast his master back again into that vortex of
mundane affairs which had so long carried him away. He resolved, then,
to defend the door bravely; and as, betrayed by the mistress of the inn,
he could not say that Aramis was absent, he endeavored to prove to the
newcomer that it would be the height of indiscretion to disturb his
master in his pious conference, which had commenced with the morning and
would not, as Bazin said, terminate before night.
But d’Artagnan took very little heed of the eloquent discourse of M.
Bazin; and as he had no desire to support a polemic discussion with his
friend’s valet, he simply moved him out of the way with one hand, and
with the other turned the handle of the door of Number Five. The door
opened, and d’Artagnan went into the chamber.
Aramis, in a black gown, his head enveloped in a sort of round flat cap,
not much unlike a CALOTTE, was seated before an oblong table, covered
with rolls of paper and enormous volumes in folio. At his right hand was
placed the superior of the Jesuits, and on his left the curate of
Montdidier. The curtains were half drawn, and only admitted the
mysterious light calculated for beatific reveries. All the mundane
objects that generally strike the eye on entering the room of a young
man, particularly when that young man is a Musketeer, had disappeared as
if by enchantment; and for fear, no doubt, that the sight of them might
bring his master back to ideas of this world, Bazin had laid his hands
upon sword, pistols, plumed hat, and embroideries and laces of all kinds
and sorts. In their stead d’Artagnan thought he perceived in an obscure
corner a discipline cord suspended from a nail in the wall.
At the noise made by d’Artagnan in entering, Aramis lifted up his head,
and beheld his friend; but to the great astonishment of the young man,
the sight of him did not produce much effect upon the Musketeer, so
completely was his mind detached from the things of this world.
"Good day, dear d’Artagnan," said Aramis; "believe me, I am glad to see
you."
"So am I delighted to see you," said d’Artagnan, "although I am not yet
sure that it is Aramis I am speaking to."
"To himself, my friend, to himself! But what makes you doubt it?"
"I was afraid I had made a mistake in the chamber, and that I had found
my way into the apartment of some churchman. Then another error seized
me on seeing you in company with these gentlemen—I was afraid you were
dangerously ill."
The two men in black, who guessed d’Artagnan’s meaning, darted at him a
glance which might have been thought threatening; but d’Artagnan took no
heed of it.
"I disturb you, perhaps, my dear Aramis," continued d’Artagnan, "for by
what I see, I am led to believe that you are confessing to these
gentlemen."
Aramis colored imperceptibly. "You disturb me? Oh, quite the contrary,
dear friend, I swear; and as a proof of what I say, permit me to declare
I am rejoiced to see you safe and sound."
"Ah, he’ll come round," thought d’Artagnan; "that’s not bad!"
"This gentleman, who is my friend, has just escaped from a serious
danger," continued Aramis, with unction, pointing to d’Artagnan with his
hand, and addressing the two ecclesiastics.
"Praise God, monsieur," replied they, bowing together.
"I have not failed to do so, your Reverences," replied the young man,
returning their salutation.
"You arrive in good time, dear d’Artagnan," said Aramis, "and by taking
part in our discussion may assist us with your intelligence. Monsieur
the Principal of Amiens, Monsieur the Curate of Montdidier, and I are
arguing certain theological questions in which we have been much
interested; I shall be delighted to have your opinion."
"The opinion of a swordsman can have very little weight," replied
d’Artagnan, who began to be uneasy at the turn things were taking, "and
you had better be satisfied, believe me, with the knowledge of these
gentlemen."
The two men in black bowed in their turn.
"On the contrary," replied Aramis, "your opinion will be very valuable.
The question is this: Monsieur the Principal thinks that my thesis ought
to be dogmatic and didactic."
"Your thesis! Are you then making a thesis?"
"Without doubt," replied the Jesuit. "In the examination which precedes
ordination, a thesis is always a requisite."
"Ordination!" cried d’Artagnan, who could not believe what the hostess
and Bazin had successively told him; and he gazed, half stupefied, upon
the three persons before him.
"Now," continued Aramis, taking the same graceful position in his easy
chair that he would have assumed in bed, and complacently examining his
hand, which was as white and plump as that of a woman, and which he held
in the air to cause the blood to descend, "now, as you have heard,
d’Artagnan, Monsieur the Principal is desirous that my thesis should be
dogmatic, while I, for my part, would rather it should be ideal. This is
the reason why Monsieur the Principal has proposed to me the following
subject, which has not yet been treated upon, and in which I perceive
there is matter for magnificent elaboration-’UTRAQUE MANUS IN
BENEDICENDO CLERICIS INFERIORIBUS NECESSARIA EST.’"
D’Artagnan, whose erudition we are well acquainted with, evinced no more
interest on hearing this quotation than he had at that of M. de Treville
in allusion to the gifts he pretended that d’Artagnan had received from
the Duke of Buckingham.
"Which means," resumed Aramis, that he might perfectly understand, "’The
two hands are indispensable for priests of the inferior orders, when
they bestow the benediction.’"
"An admirable subject!" cried the Jesuit.
"Admirable and dogmatic!" repeated the curate, who, about as strong as
d’Artagnan with respect to Latin, carefully watched the Jesuit in order
to keep step with him, and repeated his words like an echo.
As to d’Artagnan, he remained perfectly insensible to the enthusiasm of
the two men in black.
"Yes, admirable! PRORSUS ADMIRABILE!" continued Aramis; "but which
requires a profound study of both the Scriptures and the Fathers. Now, I
have confessed to these learned ecclesiastics, and that in all humility,
that the duties of mounting guard and the service of the king have
caused me to neglect study a little. I should find myself, therefore,
more at my ease, FACILUS NATANS, in a subject of my own choice, which
would be to these hard theological questions what morals are to
metaphysics in philosophy."
D’Artagnan began to be tired, and so did the curate.
"See what an exordium!" cried the Jesuit.
"Exordium," repeated the curate, for the sake of saying something.
"QUEMADMODUM INTER COELORUM IMMNSITATEM."
Aramis cast a glance upon d’Artagnan to see what effect all this
produced, and found his friend gaping enough to split his jaws.
"Let us speak French, my father," said he to the Jesuit; "Monsieur
d’Artagnan will enjoy our conversation better."
"Yes," replied d’Artagnan; "I am fatigued with reading, and all this
Latin confuses me."
"Certainly," replied the Jesuit, a little put out, while the curate,
greatly delighted, turned upon d’Artagnan a look full of gratitude.
"Well, let us see what is to be derived from this gloss. Moses, the
servant of God-he was but a servant, please to understand-Moses blessed
with the hands; he held out both his arms while the Hebrews beat their
enemies, and then he blessed them with his two hands. Besides, what does
the Gospel say? IMPONITE MANUS, and not MANUM-place the HANDS, not the
HAND."
"Place the HANDS," repeated the curate, with a gesture.
"St. Peter, on the contrary, of whom the Popes are the successors,"
continued the Jesuit; "PORRIGE DIGITOS-present the fingers. Are you
there, now?"
"CERTES," replied Aramis, in a pleased tone, "but the thing is subtle."
"The FINGERS," resumed the Jesuit, "St. Peter blessed with the FINGERS.
The Pope, therefore blesses with the fingers. And with how many fingers
does he bless? With THREE fingers, to be sure-one for the Father, one
for the Son, and one for the Holy Ghost."
All crossed themselves. D’Artagnan thought it was proper to follow this
example.
"The Pope is the successor of St. Peter, and represents the three divine
powers; the rest-ORDINES INFERIORES-of the ecclesiastical hierarchy
bless in the name of the holy archangels and angels. The most humble
clerks such as our deacons and sacristans, bless with holy water
sprinklers, which resemble an infinite number of blessing fingers. There
is the subject simplified. ARGUMENTUM OMNI DENUDATUM ORNAMENTO. I could
make of that subject two volumes the size of this," continued the
Jesuit; and in his enthusiasm he struck a St. Chrysostom in folio, which
made the table bend beneath its weight.
D’Artagnan trembled.
"CERTES," said Aramis, "I do justice to the beauties of this thesis; but
at the same time I perceive it would be overwhelming for me. I had
chosen this text-tell me, dear d’Artagnan, if it is not to your
taste-’NON INUTILE EST DESIDERIUM IN OBLATIONE’; that is, ’A little
regret is not unsuitable in an offering to the Lord.’"
"Stop there!" cried the Jesuit, "for that thesis touches closely upon
heresy. There is a proposition almost like it in the AUGUSTINUS of the
heresiarch Jansenius, whose book will sooner or later be burned by the
hands of the executioner. Take care, my young friend. You are inclining
toward false doctrines, my young friend; you will be lost."
"You will be lost," said the curate, shaking his head sorrowfully.
"You approach that famous point of free will which is a mortal rock. You
face the insinuations of the Pelagians and the semi-Pelagians."
"But, my Reverend-" replied Aramis, a little amazed by the shower of
arguments that poured upon his head.
"How will you prove," continued the Jesuit, without allowing him time to
speak, "that we ought to regret the world when we offer ourselves to
God? Listen to this dilemma: God is God, and the world is the devil. To
regret the world is to regret the devil; that is my conclusion."
"And that is mine also," said the curate.
"But, for heaven’s sake-" resumed Aramis.
"DESIDERAS DIABOLUM, unhappy man!" cried the Jesuit.
"He regrets the devil! Ah, my young friend," added the curate, groaning,
"do not regret the devil, I implore you!"
D’Artagnan felt himself bewildered. It seemed to him as though he were
in a madhouse, and was becoming as mad as those he saw. He was, however,
forced to hold his tongue from not comprehending half the language they
employed.
"But listen to me, then," resumed Aramis with politeness mingled with a
little impatience. "I do not say I regret; no, I will never pronounce
that sentence, which would not be orthodox."
The Jesuit raised his hands toward heaven, and the curate did the same.
"No; but pray grant me that it is acting with an ill grace to offer to
the Lord only that with which we are perfectly disgusted! Don’t you
think so, d’Artagnan?"
"I think so, indeed," cried he.
The Jesuit and the curate quite started from their chairs.
"This is the point of departure; it is a syllogism. The world is not
wanting in attractions. I quit the world; then I make a sacrifice. Now,
the Scripture says positively, ’Make a sacrifice unto the Lord.’"
"That is true," said his antagonists.
"And then," said Aramis, pinching his ear to make it red, as he rubbed
his hands to make them white, "and then I made a certain RONDEAU upon it
last year, which I showed to Monsieur Voiture, and that great man paid
me a thousand compliments."
"A RONDEAU!" said the Jesuit, disdainfully.
"A RONDEAU!" said the curate, mechanically.
"Repeat it! Repeat it!" cried d’Artagnan; "it will make a little
change."
"Not so, for it is religious," replied Aramis; "it is theology in
verse."
"The devil!" said d’Artagnan.
"Here it is," said Aramis, with a little look of diffidence, which,
however, was not exempt from a shade of hypocrisy:
"Vous qui pleurez un passe plein de charmes, Et qui trainez des jours
infortunes, Tous vos malheurs se verront termines, Quand a Dieu seul
vous offrirez vos larmes, Vous qui pleurez!"
"You who weep for pleasures fled, While dragging on a life of care, All
your woes will melt in air, If to God your tears are shed, You who
weep!"
d’Artagnan and the curate appeared pleased. The Jesuit persisted in his
opinion. "Beware of a profane taste in your theological style. What says
Augustine on this subject: ’SEVERUS SIT CLERICORUM VERBO.’"
"Yes, let the sermon be clear," said the curate.
"Now," hastily interrupted the Jesuit, on seeing that his acolyte was
going astray, "now your thesis would please the ladies; it would have
the success of one of Monsieur Patru’s pleadings."
"Please God!" cried Aramis, transported.
"There it is," cried the Jesuit; "the world still speaks within you in a
loud voice, ALTISIMM VOCE. You follow the world, my young friend, and I
tremble lest grace prove not efficacious."
"Be satisfied, my reverend father, I can answer for myself."
"Mundane presumption!"
"I know myself, Father; my resolution is irrevocable."
"Then you persist in continuing that thesis?"
"I feel myself called upon to treat that, and no other. I will see about
the continuation of it, and tomorrow I hope you will be satisfied with
the corrections I shall have made in consequence of your advice."
"Work slowly," said the curate; "we leave you in an excellent tone of
mind."
"Yes, the ground is all sown," said the Jesuit, "and we have not to fear
that one portion of the seed may have fallen upon stone, another upon
the highway, or that the birds of heaven have eaten the rest, AVES COELI
COMEDERUNT ILLAM."
"Plague stifle you and your Latin!" said d’Artagnan, who began to feel
all his patience exhausted.
"Farewell, my son," said the curate, "till tomorrow."
"Till tomorrow, rash youth," said the Jesuit. "You promise to become one
of the lights of the Church. Heaven grant that this light prove not a
devouring fire!"
D’Artagnan, who for an hour past had been gnawing his nails with
impatience, was beginning to attack the quick.
The two men in black rose, bowed to Aramis and d’Artagnan, and advanced
toward the door. Bazin, who had been standing listening to all this
controversy with a pious jubilation, sprang toward them, took the
breviary of the curate and the missal of the Jesuit, and walked
respectfully before them to clear their way.
Aramis conducted them to the foot of the stairs, and then immediately
came up again to d’Artagnan, whose senses were still in a state of
confusion.
When left alone, the two friends at first kept an embarrassed silence.
It however became necessary for one of them to break it first, and as
d’Artagnan appeared determined to leave that honor to his companion,
Aramis said, "you see that I am returned to my fundamental ideas."
"Yes, efficacious grace has touched you, as that gentleman said just
now."
"Oh, these plans of retreat have been formed for a long time. You have
often heard me speak of them, have you not, my friend?"
"Yes; but I confess I always thought you jested."
"With such things! Oh, d’Artagnan!"
"The devil! Why, people jest with death."
"And people are wrong, d’Artagnan; for death is the door which leads to
perdition or to salvation."
"Granted; but if you please, let us not theologize, Aramis. You must
have had enough for today. As for me, I have almost forgotten the little
Latin I have ever known. Then I confess to you that I have eaten nothing
since ten o’clock this morning, and I am devilish hungry."
"We will dine directly, my friend; only you must please to remember that
this is Friday. Now, on such a day I can neither eat flesh nor see it
eaten. If you can be satisfied with my dinner-it consists of cooked
tetragones and fruits."
"What do you mean by tetragones?" asked d’Artagnan, uneasily.
"I mean spinach," replied Aramis; "but on your account I will add some
eggs, and that is a serious infraction of the rule-for eggs are meat,
since they engender chickens."
"This feast is not very succulent; but never mind, I will put up with it
for the sake of remaining with you."
"I am grateful to you for the sacrifice," said Aramis; "but if your body
be not greatly benefited by it, be assured your soul will."
"And so, Aramis, you are decidedly going into the Church? What will our
two friends say? What will Monsieur de Treville say? They will treat you
as a deserter, I warn you."
"I do not enter the Church; I re-enter it. I deserted the Church for the
world, for you know that I forced myself when I became a Musketeer."
"I? I know nothing about it."
"You don’t know I quit the seminary?"
"Not at all."
"This is my story, then. Besides, the Scriptures say, ’Confess
yourselves to one another,’ and I confess to you, d’Artagnan."
"And I give you absolution beforehand. You see I am a good sort of a
man."
"Do not jest about holy things, my friend."
"Go on, then, I listen."
"I had been at the seminary from nine years old; in three days I should
have been twenty. I was about to become an abbe, and all was arranged.
One evening I went, according to custom, to a house which I frequented
with much pleasure: when one is young, what can be expected?—one is
weak. An officer who saw me, with a jealous eye, reading the LIVES OF
THE SAINTS to the mistress of the house, entered suddenly and without
being announced. That evening I had translated an episode of Judith, and
had just communicated my verses to the lady, who gave me all sorts of
compliments, and leaning on my shoulder, was reading them a second time
with me. Her pose, which I must admit was rather free, wounded this
officer. He said nothing; but when I went out he followed, and quickly
came up with me. ’Monsieur the Abbe,’ said he, ’do you like blows with a
cane?’ ’I cannot say, monsieur,’ answered I; ’no one has ever dared to
give me any.’ ’Well, listen to me, then, Monsieur the Abbe! If you
venture again into the house in which I have met you this evening, I
will dare it myself.’ I really think I must have been frightened. I
became very pale; I felt my legs fail me; I sought for a reply, but
could find none-I was silent. The officer waited for his reply, and
seeing it so long coming, he burst into a laugh, turned upon his heel,
and re-entered the house. I returned to the seminary.
"I am a gentleman born, and my blood is warm, as you may have remarked,
my dear d’Artagnan. The insult was terrible, and although unknown to the
rest of the world, I felt it live and fester at the bottom of my heart.
I informed my superiors that I did not feel myself sufficiently prepared
for ordination, and at my request the ceremony was postponed for a year.
I sought out the best fencing master in Paris, I made an agreement with
him to take a lesson every day, and every day for a year I took that
lesson. Then, on the anniversary of the day on which I had been
insulted, I hung my cassock on a peg, assumed the costume of a cavalier,
and went to a ball given by a lady friend of mine and to which I knew my
man was invited. It was in the Rue des France-Bourgeois, close to La
Force. As I expected, my officer was there. I went up to him as he was
singing a love ditty and looking tenderly at a lady, and interrupted him
exactly in the middle of the second couplet. ’Monsieur,’ said I, ’does
it still displease you that I should frequent a certain house of La Rue
Payenne? And would you still cane me if I took it into my head to
disobey you? The officer looked at me with astonishment, and then said,
’What is your business with me, monsieur? I do not know you.’ ’I am,’
said I, ’the little abbe who reads LIVES OF THE SAINTS, and translates
Judith into verse.’ ’Ah, ah! I recollect now,’ said the officer, in a
jeering tone; ’well, what do you want with me?’ ’I want you to spare
time to take a walk with me.’ ’Tomorrow morning, if you like, with the
greatest pleasure.’ ’No, not tomorrow morning, if you please, but
immediately.’ ’If you absolutely insist.’ ’I do insist upon it.’ ’Come,
then. Ladies,’ said the officer, ’do not disturb yourselves; allow me
time just to kill this gentleman, and I will return and finish the last
couplet.’
"We went out. I took him to the Rue Payenne, to exactly the same spot
where, a year before, at the very same hour, he had paid me the
compliment I have related to you. It was a superb moonlight night. We
immediately drew, and at the first pass I laid him stark dead."
"The devil!" cried d’Artagnan.
"Now," continued Aramis, "as the ladies did not see the singer come
back, and as he was found in the Rue Payenne with a great sword wound
through his body, it was supposed that I had accommodated him thus; and
the matter created some scandal which obliged me to renounce the cassock
for a time. Athos, whose acquaintance I made about that period, and
Porthos, who had in addition to my lessons taught me some effective
tricks of fence, prevailed upon me to solicit the uniform of a
Musketeer. The king entertained great regard for my father, who had
fallen at the siege of Arras, and the uniform was granted. You may
understand that the moment has come for me to re-enter the *** of the
Church."
"And why today, rather than yesterday or tomorrow? What has happened to
you today, to raise all these melancholy ideas?"
"This wound, my dear d’Artagnan, has been a warning to me from heaven."
"This wound? Bah, it is now nearly healed, and I am sure it is not that
which gives you the most pain."
"What, then?" said Aramis, blushing.
"You have one at heart, Aramis, one deeper and more painful—a wound
made by a woman."
The eye of Aramis kindled in spite of himself.
"Ah," said he, dissembling his emotion under a feigned carelessness, "do
not talk of such things, and suffer love pains? VANITAS VANITATUM!
According to your idea, then, my brain is turned. And for whom-for some
GRISETTE, some chambermaid with whom I have trifled in some garrison?
Fie!"
"Pardon, my dear Aramis, but I thought you carried your eyes higher."
"Higher? And who am I, to nourish such ambition? A poor Musketeer, a
beggar, an unknown-who hates slavery, and finds himself ill-placed in
the world."
"Aramis, Aramis!" cried d’Artagnan, looking at his friend with an air of
doubt.
"Dust I am, and to dust I return. Life is full of humiliations and
sorrows," continued he, becoming still more melancholy; "all the ties
which attach him to life break in the hand of man, particularly the
golden ties. Oh, my dear d’Artagnan," resumed Aramis, giving to his
voice a slight tone of bitterness, "trust me! Conceal your wounds when
you have any; silence is the last joy of the unhappy. Beware of giving
anyone the clue to your griefs; the curious suck our tears as flies suck
the blood of a wounded hart."
"Alas, my dear Aramis," said d’Artagnan, in his turn heaving a profound
sigh, "that is my story you are relating!"
"How?"
"Yes; a woman whom I love, whom I adore, has just been torn from me by
force. I do not know where she is or whither they have conducted her.
She is perhaps a prisoner; she is perhaps dead!"
"Yes, but you have at least this consolation, that you can say to
yourself she has not quit you voluntarily, that if you learn no news of
her, it is because all communication with you is interdicted; while I—"
"Well?"
"Nothing," replied Aramis, "nothing."
"So you renounce the world, then, forever; that is a settled thing—a
resolution registered!"
"Forever! You are my friend today; tomorrow you will be no more to me
than a shadow, or rather, even, you will no longer exist. As for the
world, it is a sepulcher and nothing else."
"The devil! All this is very sad which you tell me."
"What will you? My vocation commands me; it carries me away."
D’Artagnan smiled, but made no answer.
Aramis continued, "And yet, while I do belong to the earth, I wish to
speak of you—of our friends."
"And on my part," said d’Artagnan, "I wished to speak of you, but I find
you so completely detached from everything! To love you cry, ’Fie!
Friends are shadows! The world is a sepulcher!’"
"Alas, you will find it so yourself," said Aramis, with a sigh.
"Well, then, let us say no more about it," said d’Artagnan; "and let us
burn this letter, which, no doubt, announces to you some fresh
infidelity of your GRISETTE or your chambermaid."
"What letter?" cried Aramis, eagerly.
"A letter which was sent to your abode in your absence, and which was
given to me for you."
"But from whom is that letter?"
"Oh, from some heartbroken waiting woman, some desponding GRISETTE; from
Madame de Chevreuse’s chambermaid, perhaps, who was obliged to return to
Tours with her mistress, and who, in order to appear smart and
attractive, stole some perfumed paper, and sealed her letter with a
duchess’s coronet."
"What do you say?"
"Hold! I must have lost it," said the young man maliciously, pretending
to search for it. "But fortunately the world is a sepulcher; the men,
and consequently the women, are but shadows, and love is a sentiment to
which you cry, ’Fie! Fie!’"
"d’Artagnan, d’Artagnan," cried Aramis, "you are killing me!"
"Well, here it is at last!" said d’Artagnan, as he drew the letter from
his pocket.
Aramis made a bound, seized the letter, read it, or rather devoured it,
his countenance radiant.
"This same waiting maid seems to have an agreeable style," said the
messenger, carelessly.
"Thanks, d’Artagnan, thanks!" cried Aramis, almost in a state of
delirium. "She was forced to return to Tours; she is not faithless; she
still loves me! Come, my friend, come, let me embrace you. Happiness
almost stifles me!"
The two friends began to dance around the venerable St. Chrysostom,
kicking about famously the sheets of the thesis, which had fallen on the
floor.
At that moment Bazin entered with the spinach and the omelet.
"Be off, you wretch!" cried Aramis, throwing his skullcap in his face.
"Return whence you came; take back those horrible vegetables, and that
poor kickshaw! Order a larded hare, a fat capon, mutton leg dressed with
garlic, and four bottles of old Burgundy."
Bazin, who looked at his master, without comprehending the cause of this
change, in a melancholy manner, allowed the omelet to slip into the
spinach, and the spinach onto the floor.
"Now this is the moment to consecrate your existence to the King of
kings," said d’Artagnan, "if you persist in offering him a civility. NON
INUTILE DESIDERIUM OBLATIONE."
"Go to the devil with your Latin. Let us drink, my dear d’Artagnan,
MORBLEU! Let us drink while the wine is fresh! Let us drink heartily,
and while we do so, tell me a little of what is going on in the world
yonder."
End of Chapter 26 �