Part 8

— He failed, but still through his own fault, and, to redeem, not his life, for the life of the king's brother is sacred, inviolable, but to redeem his liberty, your uncle sacrificed the lives of all his friends one after another. Thus is he today the shame of history and the execration of a hundred noble families of this kingdom.

— I understand, sir, said the prince, and was it through weakness or through betrayal that my uncle killed his friends?

— Through weakness: which is always a betrayal among princes.

— Can one not also fail through ignorance, through incapacity? Do you truly believe it possible for a poor captive such as myself, raised not only far from the Court, but far from the world, do you believe it possible for him to aid those of his friends who might try to serve him?

And as Aramis was about to reply, the young man suddenly cried out with a violence that betrayed the strength of his blood:

— We speak here of friends, but by what chance should I have friends, I whom no one knows, and who have neither liberty, nor money, nor power to make any?

— It seems to me that I have had the honor of offering myself to Your Royal Highness.

— Oh! do not call me that, sir; it is mockery or barbarity. Do not make me think of anything but the prison walls that enclose me, let me still love, or, at least, endure my slavery and my obscurity.

— My lord! my lord! if you repeat those discouraged words to me! If, after having had proof of your birth, you remain poor in spirit, in breath, and in will, I shall accept your wish, I shall disappear, I shall renounce serving that master to whom, so ardently, I came to devote my life and my aid.

— Sir, cried the prince, before saying all that you say, would it not have been better to reflect that you have forever broken my heart?

— Such was my wish, my lord.

— Sir, to speak to me of greatness, of power, of royalty itself, should you choose a prison? You would have me believe in splendor, and we hide in the night? You extol glory to me, and we stifle our words beneath the curtains of this pallet? You let me glimpse an almighty power, and I hear the jailer's steps in this corridor, those steps that make you tremble more than me? To make me a little less incredulous, then, draw me from the Bastille, give air to my lungs, spurs to my foot, a sword to my arm, and we shall begin to understand one another.

— It is indeed my intention to give you all that, and more than that, my lord. Only, do you wish it?

— Listen yet, sir, interrupted the prince. I know there are guards at every gallery, bolts at every door, cannons and soldiers at every barrier. With what will you vanquish the guards, spike the cannons? With what will you break the bolts and the barriers?

— My lord, how came that note to you which you read and which announced my coming?

— One corrupts a jailer for a note.

— If one corrupts a jailer, one can corrupt ten.

— Well! I admit it may be possible to draw a poor captive from the Bastille, possible to hide him well so the king's men do not recapture him, possible also to nourish this unhappy one fittingly in an unknown refuge.

— My lord! said Aramis with a smile.

— I admit that he who would do that for me would already be more than a man, but since you say I am a prince, a brother of a king, how will you restore to me the rank and the strength that my mother and my brother have taken from me? But, since I must pass a life of combats and hatreds, how will you make me victor in those combats and invulnerable to my enemies? Ah! sir, think on it! cast me tomorrow into some black cavern, at the foot of a mountain! grant me the joy of hearing in freedom the sounds of the river and the plain, of seeing in freedom the azure sun or the stormy sky, that is enough! Promise me no more, for, in truth, you cannot give me more, and it would be a crime to deceive me, since you call yourself my friend.

Aramis continued to listen in silence.

— My lord, he resumed after a moment's reflection, I admire that judgment so right and so firm which dictates your words; I am happy to have divined my king.

— Again! again!... Ah! for pity's sake, cried the prince, pressing his icy hands to his burning-sweat-covered brow, do not abuse me: I have no need to be a king, sir, to be the happiest of men.

— And I, my lord, have need that you be a king for the happiness of humanity.

— Ah! said the prince with a new distrust inspired by those words, ah! what has humanity to reproach my brother with?

— I forgot to say, my lord, that, if you deign to let yourself be guided by me, and if you consent to become the most powerful prince on earth, you will have served the interests of all the friends I devote to the success of our cause, and these friends are numerous.

— Numerous?

— Less numerous even than powerful, my lord.

— Explain yourself.

— Impossible! I shall explain myself, I swear before God who hears me, on the very day I see you seated on the throne of France.

— But my brother?

— You shall ordain his fate. Do you pity him?

— He who lets me die in a dungeon? No, I do not pity him!

— Very well!

— He could have come himself to this prison, taken my hand and said to me: 'My brother, God created us to love one another, not to fight. I come to you. A savage prejudice condemned you to perish obscurely far from all men, deprived of all joys. I wish to seat you near me; I wish to attach to your side our father's sword. Will you use this rapprochement to stifle or constrain me? Will you use this sword to shed my blood?...'

— Oh! no, I would have answered him: I regard you as my savior, and shall respect you as my master. You give me far more than God had given me. Through you, I have liberty; through you, I have the right to love and be loved in this world.

— And you would have kept your word, my lord?

— Oh! upon my life!

— Whereas now?...

— Whereas, now, I feel I have culprits to punish...

— In what way, my lord?

— What say you of that resemblance God gave me with my brother?

— I say there was in that resemblance a providential lesson the king ought not to have neglected, I say your mother committed a crime in making different by happiness and fortune those whom nature had created so alike in her womb, and I conclude, for my part, that the punishment can be naught but the reestablishing of equilibrium.

— Which means?...

— That, if I restore you to your place on your brother's throne, your brother shall take yours in your prison.

— Alas! one suffers greatly in prison! especially when one has drunk so deeply of the cup of life!

— Your Royal Highness shall always be free to do as she will: she shall pardon, if it seems good to her, after having punished.

— Good. And now, do you know something, sir?

— Speak, my prince.

— It is that I shall listen to nothing more from you save outside the Bastille.

— I was about to say to Your Royal Highness that I shall have the honor of seeing her but once more.

— When?

— The day my prince leaves these black walls.

— God hear you! How will you warn me?

— By coming here to seek you.

— Yourself?

— My prince, leave this chamber only with me, or, if you are constrained in my absence, remember it will not be by my doing.

— Thus, not a word to anyone, save to you?

— Save to me.

Aramis bowed profoundly. The prince offered him his hand.

— Sir, he said with an accent that sprang from the heart, I have a last word to say to you. If you addressed yourself to me to ruin me, if you were but an instrument in the hands of my enemies, if from our conference, in which you have sounded my heart, there results for me something worse than captivity, that is to say, death, well! be blessed, for you will have ended my sufferings and made calm succeed the feverish tortures by which I have been devoured for eight years.

— My lord, wait to judge me, said Aramis.

— I said I bless you and pardon you. If, on the contrary, you came to restore me the place God had destined for me beneath the sun of fortune and glory, if, thanks to you, I can live in the memory of men, and do honor to my race by some illustrious deeds or some services rendered my peoples, if, from the lowest rank where I languish, I rise to the summit of honors, sustained by your generous hand, well! to you whom I bless and thank, to you half my power and my glory! You shall still be too little paid; your share shall ever be incomplete, for never shall I manage to share with you all that happiness you will have given me.

— My lord, said Aramis, moved by the pallor and the ardor of the young man, your nobleness of heart fills me with joy and admiration. It is not for you to thank me, it shall be above all to the peoples you render happy, to your descendants whom you render illustrious. Yes, I shall have given you more than life, I shall give you immortality.

The young man offered his hand to Aramis: the latter kissed it, kneeling.

— Oh! cried the prince with a charming modesty.

— It is the first homage rendered to our future king, said Aramis. When next I see you, I shall say: 'Good day, Sire!'

— Until then, cried the young man, pressing his white and wasted fingers to his heart, until then no more dreams, no more shocks to my life; it would break! oh! sir, how small my prison is and how low this window, how narrow these doors! How could so much pride, so much splendor, so much felicity have passed through there and lodged here?

— Your Royal Highness makes me proud, said Aramis, since she holds that it is I who brought all this.

He immediately knocked at the door.

The jailer came to open it with Baisemeaux, who, devoured by unease and fear, had begun despite himself to listen at the chamber door.

Happily neither of the two speakers had forgotten to stifle his voice, even in the boldest flights of passion.

— What a confession! said the governor, trying to laugh; would one ever believe a recluse, a man almost dead, had committed sins so numerous and so long?

Aramis held his peace. He was eager to leave the Bastille, where the secret that weighed on him doubled the weight of the walls.

When they had arrived at Baisemeaux's:

— Let us talk business, my dear governor, said Aramis.

— Alas! replied Baisemeaux.

— You have to ask me for my receipt for a hundred fifty thousand livres? said the bishop.

— And to pay the first third of the sum, added the poor governor with a sigh, who took three steps toward his iron strongbox.

— Here is your receipt, said Aramis.

— And here is the money, resumed M. de Baisemeaux with a triple sigh.

— The order told me only to give a receipt for fifty thousand livres, said Aramis: it did not tell me to receive money. Farewell, Monsieur the Governor.

And he departed, leaving Baisemeaux more than suffocated by surprise and joy, before this royal gift so grandly made by the extraordinary confessor of the Bastille.

Chapter CCVIII — How Mouston had grown fat without informing Porthos, and of the disagreeables that resulted therefrom for that worthy gentleman

Since Athos's departure for Blois, Porthos and d'Artagnan had rarely found themselves together. The one had performed wearying service near the king, the other had made many purchases of furniture, which he counted on taking to his estates, and by means of which he hoped to found, in his various residences, a little of that courtly luxury whose dazzling light he had glimpsed in His Majesty's company.

D'Artagnan, ever faithful, one morning when his service left him some liberty, thought of Porthos, and, uneasy at not having heard of him for more than fifteen days, made his way to his hôtel, where he caught him just risen from bed.

The worthy baron appeared thoughtful: more than thoughtful, melancholy. He was seated on his bed, half-naked, his legs dangling, contemplating a multitude of garments that strewed the parquet with their fringes, their braids, their embroideries, and their clashing of inharmonious colors.

Porthos, sad and pensive like La Fontaine's hare, did not see d'Artagnan enter, whom he was moreover hidden from at that moment by M. Mouston, whose personal corpulence, quite sufficient in any case to hide one man from another, was momentarily doubled by the display of a scarlet coat which the steward was exhibiting to his master, holding it by the sleeves, so that it might be manifest on all sides.

D'Artagnan stopped on the threshold and examined the pensive Porthos. Then, as the sight of those countless garments strewing the parquet drew deep sighs from the worthy gentleman's breast, d'Artagnan thought it time to tear him from that painful contemplation, and coughed to announce himself.

— Ah! said Porthos, whose face lit up with joy—ah! ah! here is d'Artagnan! I shall finally have an idea!

Mouston, at these words, suspecting what was passing behind him, stepped aside, smiling tenderly at his master's friend, who thus found himself rid of the material obstacle that had prevented him from reaching d'Artagnan.

Porthos made his robust knees crack as he straightened up, and, in two strides, crossing the chamber, found himself face to face with d'Artagnan, whom he pressed to his heart with an affection that seemed to gain new strength with each passing day.

— Ah! he repeated, you are ever welcome, dear friend, but today you are more welcome than ever.

— Come, come, is there sadness in your house? said d'Artagnan.

Porthos answered with a look that expressed dejection.

— Well! tell me of it, Porthos, my friend, unless it be a secret.

— First, my friend, said Porthos, you know I have no secrets from you. Here then is what saddens me.

— Wait, Porthos, let me first untangle myself from all this litter of cloth, satin, and velvet.

— Oh! walk, walk, said Porthos piteously: all that is but refuse.

— Peste! refuse, Porthos, cloth at twenty livres an ell! magnificent satin, royal velvet!

— You find these garments then?...

— Splendid, Porthos, splendid! I wager you alone in France have as many, and, supposing you had not another single one made, and lived a hundred years, which would not surprise me, you would still be wearing new garments the day of your death, without need of seeing the nose of a single tailor, from this day to that.

Porthos shook his head.

— Come, my friend, said d'Artagnan, this melancholy that is not in your nature frightens me. Dear Porthos, let us be done with it: the sooner the better.

— Yes, my friend, let us be done with it, said Porthos, if indeed it be possible.

— Have you received bad news from Bracieux, my friend?

— No, the woods were cut, and they yielded a third more than their estimate.

— Is there a leak in the ponds of Pierrefonds?

— No, my friend, they were fished, and from the surplus of the sale there was enough to stock all the ponds roundabout with fish.

— Has the Vallon slipped by reason of an earthquake?

— No, my friend, on the contrary, the thunder fell a hundred paces from the château, and sprang a source at a spot that wholly lacked water.

— Well then, what is it?

— It is that I have received an invitation to the fête at Vaux, said Porthos with a lugubrious air.

— Well! complain a little! The king has caused more than a hundred mortal quarrels in the households of the Court by refusing invitations. Ah! truly, dear friend, you are of the Vaux party? Well, well, well!

— My God, yes!

— You are going to have a magnificent view, my friend.

— Alas! I well suspect it.

— All that is great in France is to be assembled.

— Ah! said Porthos, tearing from his head a pinch of hair in despair.

— Eh! there, good God! said d'Artagnan, are you ill, my friend?

— I am as fit as the Pont-Neuf, belly of Mahon! It is not that.

— But what is it, then?

— It is that I have no garments.

D'Artagnan remained petrified.

— No garments, Porthos! no garments! he cried—when I see more than fifty there upon the floor!

— Fifty, yes, and not one that fits me!

— How, not one that fits you? But do they not measure you when they dress you?

— They do, replied Mouston, but unfortunately I have grown fat.

— How! you have grown fat?

— So that I have become bigger, but much bigger than the baron. Would you believe it, sir?

— Pardieu! it seems to me that is visible!

— Do you hear, imbecile! said Porthos, it is visible.

— But finally, dear Porthos, resumed d'Artagnan with slight impatience, I do not understand why your garments do not fit you because Mouston has grown fat.

— I am going to explain it to you, my friend, said Porthos. You recall having told me the story of a Roman general, Antony, who always had seven boars on the spit, and cooked to different degrees, so as to be able to call for his dinner at whatever hour of the day he pleased. Well! I resolved, as I might be called to Court at any moment and stay a week, I resolved to always have seven garments ready for that occasion.

— Powerfully reasoned, Porthos. Only, one must have your fortune to indulge such fancies. Not to mention the time lost in giving measures. Fashions change so often.

— That is precisely, said Porthos, where I flattered myself to have found something quite ingenious.

— Come, tell me of it. Pardieu! I doubt not your genius.

— You recall that Mouston was thin?

— Yes, in the time he was called Mousqueton.

— But do you also recall the epoch when he began to grow fat?

— No, not precisely. I beg your pardon, dear Mouston.

— Oh! Monsieur is not at fault, said Mouston with an amiable air, Monsieur was in Paris, and we were, we, at Pierrefonds.

— In short, dear Porthos, there is a moment when Mouston began to grow fat. That is what you mean, is it not?

— Yes, my friend, and I rejoiced greatly at that time.

— Peste! I well believe it, said d'Artagnan.

— You understand, continued Porthos, what trouble that spared me?

— No, dear friend, I do not yet understand; but, by dint of explaining...

— I am there, my friend. First, as you said, it is a loss of time to give one's measure, were it but once every fortnight. And then one may be traveling, and, when one wishes always to have seven garments in train... In short, my friend, I have a horror of giving my measure to anyone. One is a gentleman or one is not, the devil! To be measured by a knave who analyzes you by foot, inch, and line, is humiliating. Those fellows find you too hollow here, too protruding there; they know your strong and your weak. See here, when one leaves a measurer's hands, one resembles those strongholds whose angles and thicknesses a spy has come to chart.

— Truly, dear Porthos, you have ideas that belong to no one but you.

— Ah! you understand, when one is an engineer.

— And has fortified Belle-Île, that is just, my friend.

— I therefore had an idea, and, doubtless, it would have been good but for the negligence of M. Mouston.

D'Artagnan cast a glance at Mouston, who answered that glance with a slight movement of the body that meant: 'You shall see if there is any fault of mine in all this.'

— I therefore applauded myself, resumed Porthos, at seeing Mouston grow fat, and I even aided, with all my power, to give him embonpoint, by means of substantial nourishment, ever hoping he would attain to my circumference, and that then he might be measured in my place.

— Ah! corbœuf! cried d'Artagnan, I understand... That spared you the time and the humiliation.

— Pardieu! judge then of my joy when, after a year and a half of well- combined nourishment, for I took the trouble to feed him myself, that knave...

— Oh! and I aided well, sir, said Mouston modestly.

— That, that is true. Judge then of my joy, when I perceived that one morning Mouston was forced to turn sideways as I myself turned, to pass through the little secret door that those devils of architects made in the late Mme du Vallon's chamber, at the château of Pierrefonds. And, by the way of that door, my friend, I would ask you, who know all, how those rascally architects, who by trade must have the compass in the eye, imagine making doors through which only thin people can pass.

— Those doors, answered d'Artagnan, are destined for gallants; now, a gallant is generally of slender and svelte build.

— Mme du Vallon had no gallants, interrupted Porthos with majesty.

— Perfectly just, my friend, replied d'Artagnan: but the architects thought of the case where, perhaps, you might remarry.

— Ah! that is possible, said Porthos. And, now that the explanation of the too-narrow doors is given me, let us return to the fattening of Mouston. But note that the two things touch, my friend. I have always noticed that ideas pair off. Thus, admire this phenomenon, d'Artagnan; I was speaking to you of Mouston, who was fat, and we came to Mme du Vallon...

— Who was thin.

— Hem! is not that prodigious?

— My dear, a scholar of my acquaintance, M. Costar, made the same observation as you, and he calls it by a Greek name I cannot recall.

— Ah! my observation is not new then? cried Porthos, stupefied. I thought I had invented it.

— My friend, it was a known fact before Aristotle, that is to say close on two thousand years ago.

— Well! it is none the less just, said Porthos, enchanted to have coincided with the sages of Antiquity.

— Marvelously! But if we returned to Mouston. We left him fattening before one's eyes, it seems to me.

— Yes, monsieur, said Mouston.

— I am there, said Porthos. Mouston therefore fattened so well that he fulfilled all my hopes, attaining my measure, of which I could convince myself one day, seeing upon that scoundrel's body one of my jerkins which he had made into a garment: a jerkin worth a hundred pistoles, by the embroidery alone!

— It was to try it on, monsieur, said Mouston.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”