Part 37

— That is only natural... With whom?

— With M. de Saint-Aignan.

— I know him... a charming Gascon, who was most polite to me on the day I had the honor of dining with the king. Assuredly, I shall return his politeness, even were it not my habit. Ha! so he has offended you?

— Mortally.

— The devil! May I say mortally?

— More so, if you wish.

— That is very convenient.

— There is a matter all arranged, is it not? said Raoul with a smile.

— That goes without saying... Where do you expect him?

— Ah! pardon, that is delicate. M. de Saint-Aignan is a great friend of the king.

— I have heard it said.

— And if I kill him?

— You will certainly kill him. It is for you to take precautions; but now, such things brook no difficulties. Had you lived in our time, well and good!

— Dear friend, you have not understood me. I mean that, M. de Saint-Aignan being a friend of the king, the affair will be harder to engage, seeing that the king may know beforehand...

— Eh! not at all! My method, you know well: 'Monsieur, you have offended my friend, and...'

— Yes, I know it.

— And then: 'Monsieur, the horse is below.' So I take him away before he has spoken to anyone.

— Will he let himself be taken away like that?

— Pardieu! I should like to see it! He would be the first. It is true that the young men of today... But bah! I shall carry him off if need be.

And Porthos, suiting the action to the word, lifted Raoul and his chair off the ground.

— Very good, said the young man laughing. It remains for us to put the question to M. de Saint-Aignan.

— What question?

— That of the offense.

— Well! but it is done, it seems to me.

— No, my dear Monsieur du Vallon, the custom among us people of today, as you say, requires that one explain the causes of the offense.

— By your new method, yes. Well then, tell me your affair...

— It is that...

— Ah, Lord! there is the trouble! Formerly, we never needed to tell. We fought because we fought. I know no better reason, myself.

— You are in the right, my friend.

— I am listening to your motives.

— I have too many to tell. Only, as one must be precise...

— Yes, yes, the devil! with the new method.

— As one must, I say, be precise; as, on the other hand, the affair is full of difficulties and demands absolute secrecy...

— Oh! oh!

— You will have the kindness to say only to M. de Saint-Aignan, and he will understand it, that he has offended me: first, by moving.

— By moving?... Very well, said Porthos, who began to count on his fingers. After?

— Then by having a trapdoor built in his new lodgings.

— I understand, said Porthos; a trapdoor. Pest! that is grave! I believe indeed you must be furious at that! And why should that rogue have trapdoors made without consulting you? Trapdoors!... morbleu!... I have none, myself, save my oubliette at Bracieux!

— You will add, said Raoul, that my last motive for believing myself outraged is the portrait that M. de Saint-Aignan knows well.

— Eh! but, another portrait?... What! a removal, a trapdoor, and a portrait? But, my friend, said Porthos, with only one of those grievances, there is enough to make all the nobility of France and Spain cut each other's throats, which is saying not a little.

— Thus, dear friend, are you sufficiently furnished?

— I am taking a second horse. Choose your meeting place, and, while you wait, do lunges and full splits, that gives a rare suppleness.

— Thank you! I shall wait in the wood of Vincennes, near the Minimes.

— That is well... Where is this M. de Saint-Aignan to be found?

— At the Palais-Royal.

Porthos shook a large bell. His valet appeared.

— My ceremony dress, said he; my horse and a led horse.

The valet bowed and went out.

— Does your father know this? said Porthos.

— No; I am going to write to him.

— And d'Artagnan?

— M. d'Artagnan no more. He is prudent, he would have dissuaded me.

— D'Artagnan is a man of good counsel, however, said Porthos, astonished, in his loyal modesty that one should have thought of him when there was a d'Artagnan in the world.

— Dear Monsieur du Vallon, replied Raoul, question me no more, I beg you. I have said all I had to say. It is the action I await; I await it rough and decisive, as you know how to prepare them. That is why I have chosen you.

— You shall be content with me, replied Porthos.

— And think, dear friend, that, except us, all the world must ignore this encounter.

— One always perceives such things, said Porthos, when one finds a dead body in the wood. Ah! dear friend, I promise you all, save to hide the dead body. There it is, one sees it, it is inevitable. My principle is not to bury. That smacks of the assassin. At risk of risk, as the Norman says.

— Brave and dear friend, to work!

— Rely on me, said the giant, finishing the bottle, while his lackey spread upon a piece of furniture the sumptuous coat and the lace.

As for Raoul, he went out, saying to himself with a joy:

'Oh! perfidious king! traitor king! I cannot reach you! I will not! Kings are sacred persons; but your accomplice, your complaisant, who represents you, that coward shall pay for your crime! I shall kill him in your name, and, after, we shall think of Louise!'

Chapter CXCIV — The Removal, the Trapdoor, and the Portrait

Porthos, charged, to his great satisfaction, with this mission which rejuvenated him, saved half an hour upon the time he usually spent on his ceremony toilettes.

As a man who had rubbed shoulders with high society, he had begun by sending his lackey to inquire whether M. de Saint-Aignan was at home.

He had been answered that M. the Count de Saint-Aignan had had the honor of accompanying the king to Saint-Germain, as had all the Court, but that M. the Count had just returned that very moment.

Upon this answer, Porthos made haste and arrived at the lodgings of de Saint-Aignan, as the latter had just had his boots pulled off.

The promenade had been superb. The king, more and more in love and more and more happy, showed a charming humor toward everyone; he had kindnesses like no other, as the poets of the time said.

M. de Saint-Aignan, it will be recalled, was a poet, and thought he had proved it in enough memorable circumstances for his title not to be disputed.

Like an indefatigable rhymer, he had, during the whole route, sprinkled with quatrains, sixains, and madrigals, the king first, then La Vallière.

For his part, the king was in vein and had made a distich.

As for La Vallière, like women who love, she had made two sonnets.

As one sees, the day had not been bad for Apollo.

Also, upon returning to Paris, de Saint-Aignan, who knew in advance that his verses would go running through the boudoirs, was concerning himself, a little more than he had during the walk, with the workmanship and the idea.

Accordingly, like a tender father who is on the point of producing his children in the world, he asked himself if the public would find straight, correct, and graceful these sons of his imagination. So, to be quite sure, M. de Saint-Aignan recited to himself the following madrigal, which he had said from memory to the king, and which he had promised to give him in writing upon his return:

_Iris, your roguish eyes do not always say_ _What your thought entrusts to your heart;_ _Iris, why must I spend my life_ _Loving more your eyes that played me these tricks?_

This madrigal, all graceful as it was, did not appear perfect to de Saint-Aignan, from the moment he passed it from oral tradition to manuscript poetry. Several had found it charming, the author first of all; but at second view, it was no longer the same infatuation. Also de Saint-Aignan, before his table, one leg crossed over the other and scratching his temple, repeated:

_Iris, your roguish eyes do not always say..._

— Oh! as for that one, murmured de Saint-Aignan, that one is irreproachable. I would even add that it has a little Ronsard or Malherbe air with which I am pleased. Unfortunately, it is not the same with the second. One is quite right to say that the easiest verse to make is the first.

And he continued:

_What your thought entrusts to your heart..._

— Ah! there is the thought entrusting to the heart! Why should not the heart entrust as well to the thought? My faith, as for me, I see no obstacle. Where the devil did I go associating those two hemistichs? For example, the third is good:

_Iris, why must I spend my life..._

though the rhyme is not rich... _life_ and _entrusts_... My faith! the Abbé Boyer, who is a great poet, has rhymed, like me, _life_ and _entrusts_ in the tragedy of _Oropaste, or the False Tonaxare_, not to mention that M. Corneille does not refrain from it in his tragedy of _Sophonisbe_. So be it for _life_ and _entrusts._ Yes, but the verse is impertinent. I recall that the king bit his nail at that moment. Indeed, it seems to say to Mlle de La Vallière: 'Whence comes it that I am bewitched by you?' It would have been better to say, I think:

_But blessed be the gods who condemn my life._

_Condemn!_ Ah, yes indeed! there is another politeness! The king condemned to La Vallière... No!

Then he repeated:

_But blessed be the gods who... destine my life._

— Not bad; though _destine my life_ is weak; but my faith! all cannot be strong in a quatrain. _Loving more your eyes..._ More loving whom? what? obscurity... Obscurity is nothing; since La Vallière and the king understood me, everyone will understand me. Yes, but there is the sad part!... it is the last hemistich: _That played me these tricks._ The plural forced for the rhyme! and then to call the modesty of La Vallière a trick! That is not happy. I am going to pass through the tongues of all the scribblers my colleagues. They will call my poems verses of a great lord; and, if the king hears it said that I am a bad poet, the idea will come to him to believe it.

And, while entrusting these words to his heart, and his heart to his thoughts, the count was undressing more completely. He had just quit his coat and his waistcoat to put on his dressing gown, when he was announced the visit of M. the Baron du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds.

— Eh! said he, what is this cluster of names? I know not that.

— It is, answered the lackey, a gentleman who had the honor of dining with M. the count, at the king's table, during His Majesty's stay at Fontainebleau.

— At the king's, at Fontainebleau? cried de Saint-Aignan. Eh! quick, quick, show in this gentleman.

The lackey hastened to obey. Porthos entered.

M. de Saint-Aignan had the memory of courtiers: at first sight, he recognized therefore the lord of the province, of bizarre reputation, and whom the king had received so well at Fontainebleau, despite some smiles of the officers present. He advanced therefore toward Porthos with all the signs of a benevolence that Porthos found quite natural, he who, upon entering an adversary's house, unfurled the banner of the most refined politeness.

De Saint-Aignan had a seat brought forward by the lackey who had announced Porthos. The latter, who saw nothing exaggerated in these politenesses, sat down and coughed. The customary politenesses were exchanged between the two gentlemen; then, as it was the count who received the visit:

— Baron, said he, to what happy encounter do I owe the favor of your visit?

— That is precisely what I shall have the honor of explaining to you, Count, replied Porthos; but, pardon...

— What is it, sir? asked de Saint-Aignan.

— I perceive that I am breaking your chair.

— Not at all, sir, said de Saint-Aignan, not at all.

— Yes indeed, Count, yes indeed, I am breaking it; and so well, that, if I delay, I shall fall, a position quite unbecoming in the grave role I come to play with you.

Porthos rose. It was time, the chair had already sunk upon itself some inches. De Saint-Aignan sought with his eyes a more solid receptacle for his guest.

— Modern furniture, said Porthos while the count gave himself to this search, modern furniture has become of a ridiculous lightness. In my youth, an epoch where I sat down with even more energy than today, I do not recall ever having broken a seat, save in taverns with my arms.

De Saint-Aignan smiled pleasantly at the jest.

— But, said Porthos, installing himself upon a daybed that groaned but resisted, but that is not what it is about, unfortunately.

— How, unfortunately? Would you be the bearer of a message of ill omen, Baron?

— Of ill omen for a gentleman? oh! no, Count, replied Porthos nobly. I come only to announce to you that you have cruelly offended one of my friends.

— I, sir! cried de Saint-Aignan; I have offended one of your friends? And which, I pray you?

— M. Raoul de Bragelonne.

— I have offended M. de Bragelonne, I? cried de Saint-Aignan. Ah! but, in truth, sir, that is impossible for me; for M. de Bragelonne, whom I know little, I shall even say that I do not know at all, is in England: not having seen him for a long time, I could not have offended him.

— M. de Bragelonne is in Paris, Count, said Porthos impassible; and, as to having offended him, I answer you that it is true, since he told me so himself. Yes, Count, you have cruelly, mortally offended him, I repeat the word.

— But impossible, Baron, I swear to you, impossible.

— Besides, added Porthos, you cannot ignore this circumstance, seeing that M. de Bragelonne declared to me having warned you by a note.

— I have received no note, sir, I give you my word.

— That is extraordinary! replied Porthos; and what Raoul says...

— I am going to convince you that I have received nothing, said de Saint-Aignan.

And he rang.

— Basque, said he, how many letters or notes have come here in my absence.

— Three, M. le Comte.

— Which are?...

— The note of M. de Fiesque, that of Mme de La Ferté, and the letter of M. de Las Fuentès.

— Is that all?

— All, M. le Comte.

— Tell the truth before Monsieur, the truth, do you hear well? I answer for you.

— Monsieur, there was still the note of...

— Of... Speak quickly, come now.

— Of Mlle de La Val...

— That is enough, interrupted discreetly Porthos. Very well, I believe you, Count.

De Saint-Aignan dismissed the valet and went himself to close the door; but, as he returned, looking before him by chance, he saw come out of the lock of the neighboring chamber that famous paper which Bragelonne had slipped there upon leaving.

— What is that? said he.

Porthos, leaning against that chamber, turned round.

— Oh! oh! said Porthos.

— A note in the lock! cried de Saint-Aignan.

— That could well be ours, Count, said Porthos. See.

De Saint-Aignan took the paper.

— A note from M. de Bragelonne! cried he.

— You see, I was right. Oh! when I say a thing, myself...

— Brought here by M. de Bragelonne himself, murmured the count, growing pale. But that is unworthy! How then did he penetrate here?

De Saint-Aignan rang again. Basque reappeared.

— Who came here, while I was at the promenade with the king?

— No one, Monsieur.

— That is impossible! someone must have come!

— But, Monsieur, no one could enter, since I had the keys in my pocket.

— However, this note that was in the lock. Someone put it there; it did not come alone.

Basque opened his arms in sign of absolute ignorance.

— It was probably M. de Bragelonne who put it there? said Porthos.

— Then he would have entered here?

— No doubt, sir.

— But, finally, since I had the key in my pocket, resumed Basque with perseverance.

De Saint-Aignan crumpled the note after having read it.

— There is something under this, murmured he, absorbed.

Porthos left him a moment to his reflections.

Then he returned to his message.

— Would it please you that we return to our affair? he asked, addressing de Saint-Aignan when the lackey had disappeared.

— But I believe I understand it by this note so strangely arrived. M. de Bragelonne announces me a friend...

— I am his friend; it is therefore me he announces to you.

— To address me a challenge?

— Precisely.

— And he complains that I have offended him?

— Cruelly, mortally!

— In what fashion, if you please? For his step is too mysterious for me not to seek there at least a meaning.

— Sir, answered Porthos, my friend must be right, and, as to his step, if it is mysterious as you say, accuse none but yourself.

Porthos pronounced these last words with a confidence which, for a man little used to his manner, must reveal an infinity of meanings.

— Mystery, be it! Let us see the mystery, said de Saint-Aignan.

But Porthos bowed.

— You will find good that I enter not into it, sir, said he, and for excellent reasons.

— Which I understand marvelously. Yes, sir, let us skim then. Come, sir, I listen to you.

— There is first, sir, said Porthos, that you moved?

— That is true, I moved, said de Saint-Aignan.

— You admit it? said Porthos with an air of visible satisfaction.

— If I admit it? But yes, I admit it. Why then would you have me not admit it?

— You have admitted. Good, noted Porthos, raising only one finger in the air.

— Ah ça! sir, how can my moving have caused damage to M. de Bragelonne? Answer, come. For I understand absolutely nothing of what you tell me.

Porthos stopped him.

— Sir, said he gravely, this grievance is the first of those that M. de Bragelonne articulates against you. If he articulates it, it is that he felt wounded.

De Saint-Aignan stamped the parquet with impatience.

— That resembles a bad quarrel, said he.

— One could not have a bad quarrel with so gallant a man as the Viscount de Bragelonne, replied Porthos; but, finally, you have nothing to add on the subject of the moving, have you?

— No. After?

— Ah! after? But remark well, sir, that there is already an abominable grievance to which you reply not, or rather to which you reply ill. How, sir, you move, that offends M. de Bragelonne, and you do not excuse yourself? Very well!

— What! cried de Saint-Aignan, who was irritated by the phlegm of this personage; what! I need to consult M. de Bragelonne on the subject of moving or not? Come now, sir!

— Obligatory, sir, obligatory. However, you will avow to me that that is nothing in comparison with the second grievance.

Porthos took a severe air.

— And this trapdoor, sir, said he, and this trapdoor?

De Saint-Aignan became excessively pale. He drew back his chair so brusquely, that Porthos, naive as he was, perceived that the blow had told beforehand.

— The trapdoor, murmured de Saint-Aignan.

— Yes, sir, explain it if you can, said Porthos, shaking his head.

De Saint-Aignan lowered his brow.

— Oh! I am betrayed, murmured he; they know all!

— One always knows all, replied Porthos, who knew nothing.

— You see me overwhelmed by it, pursued de Saint-Aignan, overwhelmed to the point of losing my head!

— Guilty conscience, sir. Oh! your affair is not good.

— Sir!

— And when the public shall be informed, and shall make itself judge...

— Oh! sir, cried the count eagerly, such a secret must be unknown, even to the confessor!

— We shall see to it, said Porthos, and the secret shall not go far, indeed.

— But, sir, resumed de Saint-Aignan, M. de Bragelonne, in penetrating this secret, does he render account of the danger he runs, and that he makes run?

— M. de Bragelonne runs no danger, sir, fears none, and you shall experience it soon, with the help of God.

'This man is a madman,' thought de Saint-Aignan. 'What does he want of me?'

Then he resumed aloud:

— Come, sir, let us lull this affair asleep.

— You forget the portrait? said Porthos with a voice of thunder that froze the blood of the count.

As the portrait was that of La Vallière, and there was no longer room to mistake it, de Saint-Aignan felt his eyes quite cleared.

— Ah! cried he, ah! sir, I remember that M. de Bragelonne was her betrothed.

Porthos took an imposing air, the majesty of ignorance.

— It matters to me not at all, nor to you either, said he, that my friend is or is not the betrothed of whom you speak. I am even surprised that you pronounced that indiscreet word. It may do harm to your cause, sir.

— Sir, you are wit, delicacy, and loyalty in one person. I see all that is in question.

— So much the better! said Porthos.

— And, pursued de Saint-Aignan, you have made me understand it in the most ingenious and exquisite fashion. Thank you, sir, thank you!

Porthos puffed himself up.

— Only, now that I know all, suffer that I explain to you...

Porthos shook his head like a man who will not hear; but de Saint-Aignan continued:

— I am in despair, you see, at all that arrives; but what would you have done in my place? Come, between us, tell me what you would have done?

Porthos raised his head.

— It is not a question of what I should have done, young man; you have, said he, knowledge of the three grievances, have you not?

— For the first, for the moving, sir, and here, it is to the man of wit and honor that I address myself, when an august will itself invited me to move, ought I, could I disobey?

Porthos made a movement that de Saint-Aignan did not give him time to finish.

— Ah! my frankness touches you, said he, interpreting the movement in his fashion. You feel that I am right.

Porthos replied nothing.

— I pass to this unhappy trapdoor, pursued de Saint-Aignan, pressing his hand upon Porthos's arm; this trapdoor, cause of the evil, means of the evil; this trapdoor built for what you know. Well! in good faith, do you suppose it is I who, of my own free will, in such a place, had a trapdoor opened destined... Oh! no, you do not believe it, and, here again, you feel, you divine, you comprehend, a will above my own. You appreciate the carrying-away, I speak not of love, that irresistible folly... My God!... happily, I have to do with a man full of heart, of sensibility; otherwise, what misfortune and scandal upon her, poor child!... and upon him... whom I will not name!

Porthos, dizzy, stunned by the eloquence and gestures of Saint-Aignan, made a thousand efforts to receive this shower of words, to which he understood not the smallest word, upright and immobile on his seat; he succeeded.

De Saint-Aignan, launched into his peroration, continued, giving a new action to his voice, a growing vehemence to his gesture:

“Stories of the world, in your language.”