Part 41

The other, a rather small companion, a traveler of meager appearance, bearing especially a dusty coat, worn linen, and boots more wearied by the pavement than by the stirrup, the other had come from Nantes with a cart drawn by a horse so like Furet in color that d'Artagnan would have ridden a hundred leagues before finding better to match a team. This cart enclosed various large packages shut up in old cloths.

"That traveler there," thought d'Artagnan, "is of my sort. He suits me, he befits me. I must go to him and befit him. Mr. Agnan, in the gray jacket and the threadbare cap, is not unworthy of supping with the gentleman of the old boots and the old horse."

That said, d'Artagnan called the host and ordered him to carry up his teal, his crab, and his cider to the room of the modest-appearing gentleman.

Himself, climbing, a plate in hand, a wooden stair that led to the room, he began to knock at the door.

— Come in! said the stranger.

D'Artagnan entered with pursed lips, his plate under his arm, his hat in one hand, his candle in the other.

— Sir, said he, excuse me, I am like you a traveler, I know no one in the inn, and I have the bad habit of being bored when I eat alone, so that my meal seems poor to me and does me no good. Your face, which I caught sight of just now when you went down to have oysters opened, your face pleases me greatly; moreover, I observed that you had a horse exactly like mine, and that the host, because of this likeness no doubt, has placed them side by side in his stable, where they seem to find that company wonderful. I do not see then, sir, why the masters should be separated when the horses are brought together. In consequence, I come to ask the pleasure of being admitted to your table. My name is Agnan, Agnan at your service, sir, unworthy steward of a rich lord who wishes to buy saltworks in the country and sends me to inspect his future acquisitions. In truth, sir, I could wish that my face pleased you as much as yours pleases me, for I am wholly yours in honor.

The stranger, whom d'Artagnan saw for the first time, for at first he had only glimpsed him, the stranger had black and brilliant eyes, a yellow complexion, a brow somewhat wrinkled by the weight of fifty years, good-nature in the whole set of his features, but shrewdness in his glance.

"One would say," thought d'Artagnan, "that that fellow has never exercised anything but the upper part of his head, the eye and the brain, and he must be a man of learning: the mouth, the nose, the chin signify absolutely nothing."

— Sir, replied he whose thought and person were thus searched, you do me honor, not that I was bored; I have, he added smiling, a companion who always diverts me; but no matter, I am very happy to receive you.

But, in saying these words, the man with the worn boots cast an uneasy glance at his table, from which the oysters had disappeared and on which there remained only a piece of salted bacon.

— Sir, hastened to say d'Artagnan, the host is bringing up to me a pretty roasted fowl and a superb crab.

D'Artagnan had read in his companion's glance, rapid though it had been, the fear of an attack by a parasite. He had guessed right: at this opening, the features of the modest-appearing man smoothed out.

Indeed, as if he had been watching for his entrance, the host appeared at once, bearing the announced dishes.

The crab and the teal being added to the piece of grilled bacon, d'Artagnan and his guest bowed, sat face to face, and like two brothers made division of the bacon and the other dishes.

— Sir, said d'Artagnan, confess that it is a marvelous thing, association.

— Why? asked the stranger, his mouth full.

— Well! I am going to tell you, replied d'Artagnan.

The stranger gave truce to the movements of his jaws in order to listen better.

— First, continued d'Artagnan, instead of one candle that we each had, here are two.

— That is true, said the stranger, struck by the extreme justness of the observation.

— Then I see that you eat my crab by preference, while I, by preference, eat your bacon.

— That is true again.

— Finally, above the pleasure of being better lighted and of eating things to one's taste, I set the pleasure of society.

— In truth, sir, you are jovial, said the stranger agreeably.

— But yes, sir; jovial like all those who have nothing in their head. Oh! it is not so with you, pursued d'Artagnan, and I see in your eyes all sorts of genius.

— Oh! sir...

— Come, confess me one thing.

— Which?

— That you are a scholar.

— My faith, sir...

— Eh?

— Almost.

— Come now!

— I am an author.

— There! cried d'Artagnan in rapture, clapping his two hands, I was not mistaken! It is a miracle...

— Sir...

— What! continued d'Artagnan, should I have the happiness of passing this night in the society of an author, of a celebrated author perhaps?

— Oh! said the stranger, reddening, celebrated, sir, celebrated is not the word.

— Modest! cried d'Artagnan, transported; he is modest!

Then, returning to the stranger with the character of a sudden good-fellowship:

— But, tell me at least the name of your works, sir, for you will remark that you have not told me yours, and that I have been forced to guess it.

— My name is Jupenet, sir, said the author.

— Fine name! said d'Artagnan; fine name, upon my word, and I know not why, pardon me this blunder, if it is one, I know not how I picture having heard this name pronounced somewhere.

— But I have made verses, said the poet modestly.

— Eh! there! they must have had me read them.

— A tragedy.

— I must have seen it played.

The poet reddened again.

— I do not think so, for my verses have not been printed.

— Well! I tell you, it is the tragedy that must have taught me your name.

— You are mistaken again, for the gentlemen actors of the Hôtel de Bourgogne would not have it, said the poet with the smile that certain prides alone know the secret of.

D'Artagnan bit his lips.

— Thus, sir, continued the poet, you see that you are in error regarding me, and that, being not known at all to you, you could not have heard speak of me.

— That confounds me. This name of Jupenet seems to me nevertheless a fine name and well worthy of being known, as well as those of MM. Corneille, or Rotrou, or Garnier. I hope, sir, that you will be willing to tell me a little of your tragedy later, like that, at dessert. That will be the toast with sugar, mortbleu! Ah! pardon, sir, that is an oath, which escapes me because it is habitual to my lord and master. I sometimes permit myself to usurp that oath which seems to me in good taste. I permit myself that in his absence only, of course, for you understand that in his presence... But in truth, sir, this cider is abominable; are you not of my opinion? And besides the pot is of so irregular a shape that it will not stand on the table.

— If we wedged it?

— Doubtless: but with what?

— With this knife.

— And the teal, with what shall we carve it? Do you count by chance not to touch the teal?

— Yes indeed.

— Well! then...

— Wait.

The poet searched in his pocket and drew from it a small oblong piece of type-metal, quadrangular, about a line thick, an inch and a half long.

But scarcely had the small piece of type-metal seen the light than the poet appeared to have committed an indiscretion and made a movement to put it back in his pocket.

D'Artagnan noticed it. He was a man to whom nothing escaped.

He stretched his hand toward the small piece of type-metal.

— Why, that is pretty, what you hold there, said he; may one see?

— Certainly, said the poet, who appeared to have yielded too quickly to a first movement, certainly one may see; but you may look as much as you like, he added with a satisfied air, if I do not tell you what that serves for, you will not know.

D'Artagnan had seized like a confession the poet's hesitations and his eagerness to hide the piece of type-metal that a first movement had led him to draw from his pocket.

Also, his attention once awakened on this point, he shut himself up in a circumspection which gave him the superiority on every occasion. Besides, whatever M. Jupenet might have said, at the simple inspection of the object, he had perfectly recognized it.

It was a printing character.

— Do you guess what this is? continued the poet.

— No! said d'Artagnan; no, faith!

— Well! sir, said master Jupenet, this small piece of type-metal is a printing letter.

— Bah!

— A capital letter.

— Why! why! said M. Agnan, widening very naive eyes.

— Yes, sir, a capital J, the first letter of my name.

— And that is a letter, that?

— Yes, sir.

— Well! I am going to confess you one thing.

— Which?

— No! for it is again a foolishness that I am going to tell you.

— Eh! no, said master Jupenet with a protective air.

— Well! I do not understand, if that is a letter, how one can make a word.

— A word?

— To print it, yes.

— That is very easy.

— Let us see.

— Does that interest you?

— Enormously.

— Well! I am going to explain the thing to you. Wait!

— I wait.

— There I am.

— Good!

— Look well.

— I look.

D'Artagnan, in effect, appeared absorbed in his contemplation. Jupenet drew from his pocket seven or eight other pieces of type-metal, but smaller.

— Ah! ah! said d'Artagnan.

— What?

— You have then a whole printing-press in your pocket. Pest! it is curious, indeed.

— Is it not?

— What things one learns in traveling, my God!

— To your health, said Jupenet enchanted.

— To yours, mortbleu, to yours! But an instant, not with that cider. It is an abominable drink and unworthy of a man who drinks at the Hippocrene: is it not thus that you call your fountain, you poets?

— Yes, sir, our fountain is called thus indeed. It comes from two Greek words, hippos, which means horse... and...

— Sir, interrupted d'Artagnan, I am going to make you drink a liquor which comes from a single French word and which is none the worse for that, from the word grape; this cider sickens and swells me at once. Permit me to inquire of our host whether he has not some good bottle of Beaugency or of the Céran growth behind the great logs of his cellar.

Indeed, the host being hailed came up at once.

— Sir, interrupted the poet, take care, we shall not have time to drink the wine, unless we hurry greatly, for I must profit by the tide to take the boat.

— What boat? asked d'Artagnan.

— But the boat that leaves for Belle-Île.

— Ah! for Belle-Île? said the musketeer. Good!

— Bah! you will have all the time, sir, replied the innkeeper, uncorking the bottle; the boat does not leave for an hour.

— But who will warn me? said the poet.

— Your neighbor, replied the host.

— But I scarce know him.

— When you hear him leave, it will be time for you to leave.

— He is going to Belle-Île too?

— Yes.

— That gentleman who has a lackey? asked d'Artagnan.

— That gentleman who has a lackey.

— Some gentleman, no doubt?

— I know not.

— How, you know not?

— Yes. All I know is that he drinks the same wine as you.

— Pest! here is much honor for us, said d'Artagnan, pouring out a drink for his companion, while the host withdrew.

— Thus, resumed the poet, returning to his dominating ideas, you have never seen printing?

— Never.

— See here, one takes thus the letters which compose the word, do you see; AB; my faith, here is an R, two EE, then a G.

And he assembled the letters with a speed and a skill which did not escape the eye of d'Artagnan.

— Abbreviated, said he in finishing.

— Good! said d'Artagnan; here are the letters well assembled; but how do they hold?

And he poured a second glass of wine for his host. M. Jupenet smiled as a man who has an answer for everything; then he drew, from his pocket always, a small rule of metal, composed of two parts assembled at a right angle, on which he united and aligned the characters, holding them under his left thumb.

— And what does one call this small iron rule? said d'Artagnan; for after all all that must have a name.

— That is called a composing-stick, said Jupenet. It is with the aid of this rule that one forms the lines.

— Come, come, I maintain what I said; you have a press in your pocket, said d'Artagnan, laughing with an air of such heavy simplicity, that the poet was completely his dupe.

— No, replied he, but I am lazy to write, and when I have made a verse in my head, I compose it at once for the printing-press. It is a doubled labor.

"Mortbleu!" thought d'Artagnan to himself, "it is a question of clearing this up."

And under a pretext which did not embarrass the musketeer, a man fertile in expedients, he left the table, descended the stair, ran to the shed under which was the small cart, searched with the point of his poniard the cloth and the wrappings of one of the packages, which he found full of type-metal characters like those the poet-printer had in his pocket.

"Good!" said d'Artagnan, "I know not yet if M. Fouquet wishes to fortify Belle-Île materially; but here is, in any case, spiritual munition for the castle."

Then, rich with this discovery, he came back to seat himself at table.

D'Artagnan knew what he wished to know. He remained none the less facing his partner until the moment when one heard in the neighboring room the bustle of a man who prepares to depart. At once the printer was on his feet; he had given orders for his horse to be harnessed. The carriage awaited him at the door. The second traveler was mounting on horseback in the court with his lackey. D'Artagnan followed Jupenet to the port; he embarked his carriage and his horse on the boat.

As for the opulent traveler, he did the like with his two horses and his servant. But whatever wit d'Artagnan spent to know his name, he could learn nothing.

Only, he remarked his face, in such a way that the face engraved itself forever in his memory. D'Artagnan had a good mind to embark with the two passengers, but an interest more powerful than that of curiosity, that of success, pushed him back from the shore and brought him again into the inn.

He re-entered sighing and went immediately to bed in order to be ready the next day early with fresh ideas and the counsel of the night.

Chapter LXVIII — D'Artagnan continues his investigations

At daybreak, d'Artagnan saddled himself Furet, who had feasted all night, and devoured alone the remains of provisions of his two companions.

The musketeer took all his information from the host, whom he found shrewd, distrustful, and devoted body and soul to M. Fouquet. It resulted from this that, in order to give no suspicion to this man, he continued his tale of a probable purchase of some saltworks. To embark for Belle-Île at La Roche-Bernard would have been to expose himself to commentaries that perhaps had already been made and that were about to be carried to the castle.

Moreover, it was singular that this traveler and his lackey remained a secret for d'Artagnan, despite all the questions addressed by him to the host, who seemed to know him perfectly. The musketeer therefore had himself informed about the saltworks and took the road of the marshes, leaving the sea on his right and penetrating into that vast and desolate plain which resembles a sea of mud, where here and there some crests of salt silver the undulations.

Furet marched marvelously with his small nervous feet, on the causeways a foot wide which divide the saltworks.

D'Artagnan, reassured as to the consequences of a fall which would end in a cold bath, let him do it, contenting himself, he, with looking at the horizon at the three sharp rocks which came forth like lance-heads from the bosom of the verdureless plain.

Piriac, the bourg of Batz and Le Croisic, similar the ones to the others, attracted and suspended his attention. If the traveler turned back to orient himself better, he saw on the other side a horizon of three other bell-towers, Guérande, Le Pouliguen, Saint-Joachim, which, in their circumference, figured to him a game of ninepins, of which Furet and he were only the wandering ball. Piriac was the first small port on his right. He went there, the names of the principal salt-makers on his lips. At the moment when he visited the small port of Piriac, five large shallops laden with stones were leaving it.

It appeared strange to d'Artagnan that stones should depart from a country where none are found. He had recourse to all the amenity of M. Agnan to ask the people of the port the cause of this singularity. An old fisherman answered M. Agnan that the stones came not from Piriac, nor from the marshes, of course.

— Whence do they come then? asked the musketeer.

— Sir, they come from Nantes and from Paimbœuf.

— Whither then do they go?

— Sir, to Belle-Île.

— Ah! ah! said d'Artagnan, in the same tone he had taken to tell the printer that his characters interested him... They are working then, at Belle-Île?

— But yes indeed! sir. Every year M. Fouquet has the walls of the castle repaired.

— It is in ruins then?

— It is old.

— Very well.

"The fact is," said d'Artagnan to himself, "that nothing is more natural, and that every proprietor has the right to have his property repaired. It is as if one came to tell me, to me, that I am fortifying the Image-de-Notre-Dame, when I shall be purely and simply obliged to make repairs there. In truth, I believe false reports have been made to His Majesty and that she might well be wrong..."

— You will confess to me, he continued then aloud, addressing the fisherman, for his role of a distrustful man was imposed on him by the very aim of the mission, you will confess to me, my good sir, that these stones travel in a very singular fashion.

— How so! said the fisherman.

— They come from Nantes or from Paimbœuf by the Loire, is it not?

— That goes down.

— That is convenient, I do not say; but why do they not go straight from Saint-Nazaire to Belle-Île?

— Eh! because the shallops are bad boats and hold the sea poorly, replied the fisherman.

— That is no reason.

— Pardon me, sir, one sees well that you have never navigated, added the fisherman, not without a sort of disdain.

— Explain that to me, I pray you, my good man. It seems to me that to come from Paimbœuf to Piriac, to go from Piriac to Belle-Île, is as if one went from La Roche-Bernard to Nantes and from Nantes to Piriac.

— By water, that would be shorter, replied imperturbably the fisherman.

— But there is a bend?

The fisherman shook his head.

— The shortest road from one point to another is the straight line, pursued d'Artagnan.

— You forget the tide, sir.

— Be it so! done for the tide.

— And the wind.

— Ah! good!

— No doubt; the current of the Loire pushes the boats almost to the Croisic. If they need to refit a little or refresh the crew, they come to Piriac along the coast; from Piriac, they find another contrary current which carries them to the island of Dumet, two leagues and a half.

— Agreed.

— There, the current of the Vilaine throws them on another island, the island of Hoëdic.

— I grant it well.

— Eh! sir, from that island to Belle-Île, the road is straight. The sea, broken above and below, passes like a canal, like a mirror between the two islands; the shallops glide thereon similar to ducks on the Loire, there!

— No matter, said the obstinate M. Agnan, it is a good deal of road.

— Ah!... M. Fouquet wills it! replied for conclusion the fisherman, taking off his woolen cap at the pronouncement of that respectable name.

A glance of d'Artagnan, a glance quick and piercing like the blade of a sword, found in the heart of the old man only naive confidence, on his features only satisfaction and indifference. He said: "M. Fouquet wills it," as he would have said: "God has willed it!" D'Artagnan had again gone too far at this point; besides, the shallops being gone, there remained at Piriac but a single boat, that of the old man, and it seemed not disposed to take the sea again without much preparation.

Also, d'Artagnan caressed Furet, who, for new proof of his charming character, set forth again with his feet in the saltworks and his nose to the very dry wind which bends the furze and the meager heather of this country. He arrived toward five o'clock at the Croisic.

If d'Artagnan had been a poet, it was a fine spectacle, that of those immense shores, of a league and more, which the sea covers at the tides, and which, at the ebb, appear grayish, desolate, strewn with polyps and dead seaweed with their scattered pebbles white, like bones in a vast cemetery. But the soldier, the politician, the ambitious man had no longer even that sweet consolation of looking to the sky to read there a hope or a warning. The red sky signifies for these people of the wind and the storm. The white and cottony clouds on the azure say simply that the sea will be even and gentle. D'Artagnan found the sky blue, the north wind perfumed with saline odors, and said to himself: "I shall embark at the first tide, were it on a nutshell." At the Croisic, as at Piriac, he had remarked enormous heaps of stones aligned on the shore. These gigantic walls, demolished at each tide by the transports that were made for Belle-Île, were in the eyes of the musketeer the sequel and the proof of what he had so well guessed at Piriac. Was it a wall that M. Fouquet was rebuilding? was it a fortification that he was erecting? To know it, one must see. D'Artagnan put Furet in the stable, supped, went to bed, and the next day, at dawn, he was walking on the port, or better, on the shingle. The Croisic has a port of fifty feet, it has a lookout which resembles an enormous brioche raised on a dish.

The flat shores are the dish. A hundred wheelbarrow-loads of earth solidified with shingle, and rounded in a cone with sinuous walks, are the brioche and the lookout at once.

It is thus today, it was thus a hundred eighty years ago; only, the brioche was less large and one probably did not see around the brioche the lattice-work of laths which make the ornament and which the municipality of this poor and pious bourgade has planted like railings along the spiral walks which lead to the small terrace. On the shingle, three or four fishermen talked sardines and prawns.

M. Agnan, his eye animated with a good coarse gaiety, a smile on his lips, approached the fishermen.

— Do you fish today? said he.

— Yes sir, said one of them, and we await the tide.

— Where do you fish, my friends?

— On the coasts, sir.

— Which are the good coasts?

— Ah! that depends; the tour of the islands, for example.

— But that is far, the islands?

— Not too; four leagues.

— Four leagues! That is a journey!

“Stories of the world, in your language.”