Part 43

Porthos opened enormous eyes, which asked the musketeer eloquently: "Where the devil did you steal such a sum, dear friend?"

"Two hundred thousand livres!" he cried at last.

"Yes, which, with twenty-five I had, and twenty thousand I have on me, complete for me a sum of two hundred forty-five thousand livres."

"But come, come! Where does this fortune come from?"

"Ah! there it is. I will tell you the thing later, dear friend; but since you yourself have many things to tell me first, let us put my account in its place."

"Bravo!" said Porthos. "Here we all are rich. But what was I to tell you?"

"You are to tell me how Aramis was appointed..."

"Ah! Bishop of Vannes."

"That is it," said d'Artagnan, "Bishop of Vannes. Our dear Aramis! Do you know he is making his way?"

"Yes, yes, yes! Not to mention he will not stop there."

"What! You believe he will not content himself with the violet stockings, and that he will need the red hat?"

"Hush! It is promised him."

"Bah! By the king?"

"By someone more powerful than the king."

"Ah! the devil! Porthos, what incredible things you tell me, my friend!"

"Why incredible? Has there not always been in France someone more powerful than the king?"

"Oh! indeed there has. In the time of King Louis XIII, it was the Duke of Richelieu; during the regency, it was Cardinal Mazarin; in the time of Louis XIV, it is M..."

"Come now!"

"It is M. Fouquet."

"Done! You named him at the first guess."

"So it is M. Fouquet who promised the hat to Aramis?"

Porthos assumed a reserved air.

"Dear friend," he said, "God preserve me from meddling in the affairs of others and above all from revealing secrets they may have an interest in keeping. When you see Aramis, he will tell you what he believes he ought to tell you."

"You are right, Porthos, and you are a lock for safety. Let us return to you, then."

"Yes," said Porthos.

"You told me then that you were here to study the topography?"

"Exactly."

"Zounds! my friend, the fine things you will do!"

"How so?"

"Why, these fortifications are admirable."

"Is that your opinion?"

"Undoubtedly. Truly, unless by a perfectly regular siege, Belle-Île is impregnable."

Porthos rubbed his hands.

"That is my opinion," said he.

"But who the devil fortified this hovel thus?"

Porthos puffed himself up.

"Did I not tell you?"

"No."

"Do you not suspect?"

"No; all I can say is that it is a man who has studied all the systems and who seems to me to have settled on the best."

"Hush!" said Porthos; "spare my modesty, my dear d'Artagnan."

"Really!" answered the musketeer; "it would be you... who... Oh!"

"For mercy's sake, my friend!"

"You who imagined, traced, and combined among themselves those bastions, those reentrants, those curtain walls, those demi-lunes, who are preparing this covered way?"

"I beg you..."

"You who built this lunette with its inward and outward angles?"

"My friend..."

"You who gave to the embrasures of your pieces that inclination by means of which you so effectively protect the gunners?"

"Eh! my God, yes."

"Ah! Porthos, Porthos, one must bow before you, one must admire! But you always hid from us this fine genius! I hope, my friend, that you are going to show me all that in detail."

"Nothing easier. Here is my plan."

"Show."

Porthos led d'Artagnan toward the stone that served him as a table and on which the plan was spread.

At the bottom of the plan was written, in that formidable handwriting of Porthos, a handwriting of which we have already had occasion to speak: "Instead of using the square or the rectangle, as has been done until today, you will suppose your place enclosed in a regular hexagon. This polygon having the advantage of offering more angles than the quadrilateral. Each side of your hexagon, whose length you will determine in proportion to the dimensions taken from the place, will be divided into two parts, and at the midpoint you will raise a perpendicular toward the center of the polygon, which will equal in length the sixth part of the side. From the extremities of each side of the polygon, you will trace two diagonals which will cut the perpendicular. These two lines will form the lines of defense."

"The devil!" said d'Artagnan, stopping at that point of the demonstration; "but this is a complete system, Porthos?"

"Entirely," said Porthos. "Do you wish to continue?"

"Not at all, I have read enough; but since it is you, my dear Porthos, who direct the works, what need have you to establish your system thus in writing?"

"Oh! my dear, death!"

"How, death?"

"Eh yes! We are all mortal."

"That is true," said d'Artagnan; "you have an answer for everything, my friend."

And he set the plan back on the stone.

But however little time he had held that plan in his hands, d'Artagnan had been able to distinguish, beneath the enormous handwriting of Porthos, a much finer handwriting which reminded him of certain letters to Marie Michon of which he had had knowledge in his youth. Only, the rubber had passed and repassed over that writing, which would have escaped an eye less practiced than that of our musketeer.

"Bravo, my friend, bravo!" said d'Artagnan.

"And now you know all you wished to know, do you not?" said Porthos, strutting.

"Oh! my God, yes; only, do me one last favor, dear friend."

"Speak; I am master here."

"Do me the pleasure of naming that gentleman who is walking there below."

"Where, there below?"

"Behind the soldiers."

"Followed by a lackey?"

"Precisely."

"In company with a sort of knave dressed in black?"

"Admirably!"

"That is M. Gétard."

"What is M. Gétard, my friend?"

"He is the architect of the house."

"Of what house?"

"Of M. Fouquet's house."

"Ah! ah!" cried d'Artagnan; "so you are of M. Fouquet's household, you, Porthos?"

"I! And why so?" said the topographer, blushing to the upper extremity of his ears.

"But, you say 'the house,' speaking of Belle-Île, as if you spoke of the château of Pierrefonds."

Porthos pinched his lips.

"My dear," said he, "Belle-Île belongs to M. Fouquet, does it not?"

"Yes."

"As Pierrefonds belongs to me?"

"Certainly."

"You came to Pierrefonds?"

"I told you I was there not two months ago."

"Did you see there a gentleman who has the habit of walking about with a ruler in his hand?"

"No; but I might have seen him there, if he indeed walked about there."

"Well! that gentleman is M. Boulingrin."

"What is M. Boulingrin?"

"There exactly. If when that gentleman walks about with a ruler in his hand, someone asks me: 'What is M. Boulingrin?' I answer: 'He is the architect of the house.' Well! M. Gétard is M. Fouquet's Boulingrin. But he has nothing to do with the fortifications, which concern me alone, do you understand well? nothing, absolutely."

"Ah! Porthos," cried d'Artagnan, letting his arms fall like a vanquished man who yields his sword; "ah! my friend, you are not only a Herculean topographer, you are still a dialectician of the first rank."

"Is it not so," replied Porthos, "that this is powerfully reasoned?"

And he blew like the conger that d'Artagnan had let escape in the morning.

"And now," continued d'Artagnan, "this knave who accompanies M. Gétard, is he also of M. Fouquet's household?"

"Oh!" said Porthos with contempt, "he is a M. Jupenet or Juponet, a sort of poet."

"Who comes to settle here?"

"I believe so."

"I thought M. Fouquet had quite enough poets there already: Scudéry, Loret, Pellisson, La Fontaine. If I must tell you the truth, Porthos, that poet dishonors you."

"Eh! my friend, what saves us is that he is not here as a poet."

"How then is he here?"

"As a printer, and even you make me think that I have a word to say to him, to that pedant."

"Say it."

Porthos made a sign to Jupenet, who had well recognized d'Artagnan and did not care to approach; which naturally brought about a second sign from Porthos.

That sign was so imperative that one had to obey this time.

He approached, then.

"Here!" said Porthos, "you landed yesterday and already you are up to your tricks."

"How so, Monsieur le Baron?" asked Jupenet, all trembling.

"Your press groaned all night, Monsieur," said Porthos, "and you kept me from sleeping, ox horn!"

"Monsieur..." objected Jupenet timidly.

"You have nothing yet to print; therefore you ought not yet to be working the press. What then did you print this night?"

"Monsieur, a light poetry of my own composition."

"Light! Come now, Monsieur, the press cried out that it was a pity. Let that not happen again, do you hear?"

"No, Monsieur."

"You promise me?"

"I promise."

"That is well; for this time, I forgive you. Go!"

The poet withdrew with the same humility he had shown on arriving.

"Well! now that we have washed that rogue's head, let us breakfast," said Porthos.

"Yes," said d'Artagnan, "let us breakfast."

"Only," said Porthos, "I would have you observe, my friend, that we have but two hours for our meal."

"What would you have! We will try to make enough of it. But why have we but two hours?"

"Because the tide rises at one o'clock, and with the tide I leave for Vannes. But, as I return tomorrow, dear friend, stay at my house, you will be master there. I have good cook, good cellar."

"But no," interrupted d'Artagnan, "better than that."

"What?"

"You are going to Vannes, you say?"

"Doubtless."

"To see Aramis?"

"Yes."

"Well! I who came from Paris expressly to see Aramis..."

"That is true."

"I will leave with you."

"Why! so be it."

"Only, I was to begin by seeing Aramis, and you after. But man proposes and God disposes. I shall have begun with you, I will end with Aramis."

"Very well!"

"And in how many hours do you go from here to Vannes?"

"Ah! my God! in six hours. Three hours by sea from here to Sarzeau, three hours by road from Sarzeau to Vannes."

"How convenient! And you go often to Vannes, being so near the bishopric?"

"Yes, once a week. But wait while I take my plan."

Porthos gathered up his plan, folded it carefully, and engulfed it in his wide pocket.

"Good!" said d'Artagnan to himself, "I believe I now know who is the true engineer fortifying Belle-Île."

Two hours later, at the rising tide, Porthos and d'Artagnan set off for Sarzeau.

Chapter LXXI — A Procession at Vannes

The crossing from Belle-Île to Sarzeau was made rather quickly, thanks to one of those little corsairs of which mention had been made to d'Artagnan during his voyage, and which, built for speed and destined for chase, sheltered themselves momentarily in the roadstead of Locmaria, where one of them, with a quarter of its war crew, made the passage between Belle-Île and the mainland.

D'Artagnan had occasion this time again to convince himself that Porthos, although engineer and topographer, was not deeply immersed in the secrets of state.

His perfect ignorance, moreover, would have passed near anyone else for learned dissimulation. But d'Artagnan knew too well all the folds and creases of his Porthos not to find a secret there if one were, just as those old bachelors, orderly and meticulous, know how to find, eyes shut, such a book on the shelves of the library, such a piece of linen in a drawer of their chest.

Therefore, if he had found nothing, that cunning d'Artagnan, in rolling and unrolling his Porthos, it is that in truth there was nothing.

"So be it," said d'Artagnan; "I shall know more at Vannes in half an hour than Porthos has known at Belle-Île in two months. Only, that I may know something, it matters that Porthos not use the only stratagem of which I leave him the disposal. He must not warn Aramis of my arrival."

All the musketeer's cares were therefore limited for the moment to watching Porthos.

And, let us hasten to say it, Porthos did not deserve this excess of distrust. Porthos was not thinking of any mischief at all.

Perhaps, at first sight, d'Artagnan had inspired him with a little distrust; but almost immediately d'Artagnan had reconquered in that good and brave heart the place he had always occupied there, and not the slightest cloud darkened the big eye of Porthos fixing from time to time with tenderness upon his friend.

On landing, Porthos inquired if his horses awaited him, and indeed he soon perceived them at the cross of the road which turns around Sarzeau and which, without crossing that little town, leads to Vannes. These horses were two in number: that of M. de Vallon and that of his squire.

For Porthos had a squire since Mousqueton no longer used anything but the cart as a means of locomotion.

D'Artagnan expected that Porthos would propose sending his squire ahead on a horse to bring back another, and he promised himself, he, d'Artagnan, to combat that proposition. But nothing of what d'Artagnan presumed came to pass. Porthos simply ordered the servant to dismount and await his return at Sarzeau while d'Artagnan mounted his horse.

Which was done.

"Eh! but you are a man of precaution, my dear Porthos," said d'Artagnan to his friend when he found himself in the saddle on the squire's horse.

"Yes; but it is a courtesy of Aramis. I have not my equipages here. Aramis has therefore put his stables at my disposal."

"Good horses, 'sblood! for bishop's horses," said d'Artagnan. "It is true that Aramis is a quite particular bishop."

"He is a holy man," answered Porthos in an almost nasal tone, raising his eyes to heaven.

"Then he is much changed," said d'Artagnan, "for we knew him passably profane."

"Grace has touched him," said Porthos.

"Bravo!" said d'Artagnan, "that redoubles my desire to see him, this dear Aramis."

And he spurred his horse, which bore him off with renewed speed.

"Pest!" said Porthos, "if we go at that pace, we shall take but one hour instead of two."

"To make how many, do you say, Porthos?"

"Four and a half leagues."

"That will be going at a good clip."

"I could have, dear friend, embarked you on the canal; but the devil with rowers or draft horses! The first go like tortoises, the second like slugs, and when one can put a good courser between the knees, better a good horse than rowers or any other means."

"You are right, you especially, Porthos, who are always magnificent on horseback."

"A bit heavy, my friend; I weighed myself recently."

"And how much do you weigh?"

"Three hundred!" said Porthos with pride.

"Bravo!"

"So that, you understand, one is forced to choose me horses whose back is straight and broad, otherwise I break them in two hours."

"Yes, horses of a giant, is it not, Porthos?"

"You are very kind, my friend," replied the engineer with an affectionate majesty.

"Indeed, my friend," replied d'Artagnan, "it seems to me your mount is already sweating."

"Why; it is hot. Ah! ah! do you see Vannes now?"

"Yes, very well. It is a very fine city, it appears?"

"Charming, according to Aramis, at least; myself, I find it black; but it seems black is beautiful, for artists. I am sorry for it."

"Why so, Porthos?"

"Because I have precisely had my château of Pierrefonds, which was gray with age, whitewashed in white."

"Hum!" made d'Artagnan; "indeed, white is gayer."

"Yes, but it is less august, so Aramis told me. Fortunately there are dealers in black: I shall have Pierrefonds rewhitewashed in black, that is all. If gray is beautiful, you understand, my friend, black must be superb."

"Why!" made d'Artagnan, "that seems logical to me."

"Have you never come to Vannes, d'Artagnan?"

"Never."

"Then you do not know the city?"

"No."

"Well! see," said Porthos, rising in his stirrups, a movement which made the forehand of his horse bend, "do you see in the sun, over there, that spire?"

"Certainly, I see it."

"That is the cathedral."

"Which is called?"

"Saint-Pierre. Now, there, see, in the faubourg to the left, do you see another cross?"

"Admirably."

"That is Saint-Paterne, the favored parish of Aramis."

"Ah!"

"No doubt. You see, Saint Paterne passes for having been the first bishop of Vannes. It is true Aramis claims not, himself. It is true he is so learned, that it might well be but a para... a para..."

"A paradox," said d'Artagnan.

"Precisely. Thank you, my tongue was faltering... it is so hot."

"My friend," said d'Artagnan, "continue, I pray you, your interesting demonstration. What is that great white building pierced with windows?"

"Ah! that one, it is the college of the Jesuits. 'Sblood! you have a lucky hand. Do you see near the college a great house with bell turrets, and of a fine Gothic style, as that brute of M. Gétard says?"

"Yes, I see it. Well?"

"Well! that is where Aramis lodges."

"What! he does not lodge at the bishopric?"

"No; the bishopric is in ruins. The bishopric, moreover, is in the city, and Aramis prefers the faubourg. That is why, I tell you, he is fond of Saint-Paterne, because Saint-Paterne is in the faubourg. And then there is in that same faubourg a mall, a tennis court, and a house of Dominicans. See, that one which raises to heaven that beautiful bell tower."

"Very well."

"Next, you see, the faubourg is like a town apart; it has its walls, its towers, its ditches; the quay itself leads there, and the boats come alongside the quay. If our little corsair did not draw eight feet of water, we should have arrived under full sail even beneath the windows of Aramis."

"Porthos, Porthos, my friend," cried d'Artagnan, "you are a well of learning, a source of ingenious and profound reflections. Porthos, you no longer surprise me, you overwhelm me."

"Here we are arrived," said Porthos, turning the conversation with his usual modesty.

"And it was time," thought d'Artagnan, "for Aramis's horse melts like a horse of ice."

They entered the faubourg almost at the same instant, but had scarcely made a hundred paces when they were surprised to see the streets strewn with foliage and flowers.

On the old walls of Vannes hung the oldest and strangest tapestries of France.

From the iron balconies fell long white sheets all sprinkled with bouquets.

The streets were deserted; one felt that all the population was gathered at one point.

The shutters were closed, and freshness penetrated the houses under the shelter of the hangings, which made broad black shadows between their projections and the walls. Suddenly, at the turning of a street, songs struck the ears of the new arrivals. A holiday-clad crowd appeared through the vapors of incense rising to the sky in bluish flakes, and the clouds of rose leaves fluttering up to the first floors. Above all the heads, one distinguished the crosses and the banners, sacred signs of religion.

Then, beneath those crosses and those banners, and as protected by them, a whole world of young girls dressed in white and crowned with cornflowers.

On the two sides of the street, enclosing the procession, advanced the soldiers of the garrison, carrying bouquets in the barrels of their muskets and at the point of their lances.

It was a procession.

While d'Artagnan and Porthos looked on with a tasteful fervor which disguised an extreme impatience to push forward, a magnificent canopy approached, preceded by a hundred Jesuits and a hundred Dominicans, and escorted by two archdeacons, a treasurer, a penitentiary, and twelve canons. A chanter with a thundering voice, a chanter picked certainly from all the voices of France, as was the drum-major of the imperial guard from all the giants of the Empire, a chanter, escorted by four other chanters who seemed to be there only to serve him as accompaniment, made the airs resound and the panes of all the houses vibrate.

Beneath the canopy appeared a pale and noble face, with black eyes, black hair mixed with threads of silver, a fine and circumspect mouth, a prominent and angular chin.

That head, full of gracious majesty, was capped with the episcopal mitre, a headgear which gave it, besides the character of sovereignty, that of asceticism and evangelical meditation.

"Aramis!" cried the musketeer involuntarily when that haughty face passed before him.

The prelate started; he seemed to have heard that voice as a dead man risen again hears the voice of the Savior. He raised his great black eyes with their long lashes and bore them without hesitation toward the spot from which the exclamation had come. At a single glance, he had seen Porthos and d'Artagnan near him. For his part, d'Artagnan, thanks to the acuity of his gaze, had seen all, seized all. The full-length portrait of the prelate had entered his memory to leave it no more.

One thing above all had struck d'Artagnan. On perceiving him, Aramis had blushed, then he had at once concentrated beneath his eyelid the fire of the master's gaze and the imperceptible affection of the friend's gaze.

It was evident that Aramis was asking himself under his breath this question: "Why is d'Artagnan here with Porthos, and what comes he to do at Vannes?" Aramis understood all that passed in the mind of d'Artagnan in turning his gaze back upon him and seeing that he had not lowered his eyes.

He knows the subtlety of his friend and his intelligence; he fears to let be guessed the secret of his blush and his astonishment. It is indeed the same Aramis, always having a secret to dissimulate. Also, to be done with that inquisitor's gaze which must be made to lower at any cost, as at any cost a general extinguishes the fire of a battery that bothers him, Aramis extends his beautiful white hand, on which sparkles the amethyst of the pastoral ring, he splits the air with the sign of the cross and fells his two friends with his blessing. Perhaps, dreamy and distracted, d'Artagnan, impious in spite of himself, would not have bowed beneath that holy blessing; but Porthos has seen that distraction, and, resting his hand friendly upon the back of his companion, he crushes him toward the earth.

D'Artagnan bent: little lacked that he fell flat on his face.

Meanwhile Aramis had passed.

D'Artagnan, like Antaeus, had but touched the earth, and he turns toward Porthos all ready to grow angry.

But there is no mistaking the intention of the brave Hercules: it is a sentiment of religious propriety that moves him. Besides, speech, with Porthos, instead of disguising thought, always completes it.

"It is very kind of him," said he, "to have given us thus a blessing, to us alone. Decidedly, he is a holy man and a brave man."

Less convinced than Porthos, d'Artagnan did not answer.

"See, dear friend," continued Porthos, "he saw us, and instead of continuing to walk at the simple procession pace, as just now, see how the cortège doubles its speed? He is in haste to see us and embrace us, this dear Aramis."

"That is true," answered d'Artagnan aloud.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”