Part 2

The bishop approached the sleeper. A thick carpet muffled the sound of his steps; besides, Porthos was snoring in a way that drowned out every other noise.

He laid a hand upon his shoulder.

“Come,” he said, “come, my dear Porthos.”

Aramis’s voice was soft and affectionate, but it held more than advice—it held a command. His hand was light, but it signaled a danger.

Porthos heard the voice and felt Aramis’s hand deep in his slumber.

He started.

“Who goes there?” he said in his giant’s voice.

“Hush! It is I,” said Aramis.

“You, dear friend! And why the devil do you wake me?”

“To tell you that you must leave.”

“Leave?”

“Yes.”

“For where?”

“For Paris.”

Porthos bounded up in his bed and fell back sitting, fixing his startled great eyes on Aramis.

“For Paris?”

“Yes.”

“A hundred leagues!” he said.

“A hundred and four,” replied the bishop.

“Ah! my God!” sighed Porthos, lying down again, like those children who struggle with their nurse to gain an hour or two of sleep.

“Thirty hours on horseback,” Aramis added resolutely. “You know there are good relay stations.”

Porthos moved one leg, letting escape a groan.

“Come! come! dear friend,” insisted the prelate with a sort of impatience.

Porthos drew the other leg from the bed.

“And is it absolutely necessary that I leave?” he said.

“Of absolute necessity.”

Porthos rose to his feet and began to shake the floor and walls with his statue’s tread.

“Hush! for the love of God, my dear Porthos!” said Aramis; “you will wake someone.”

“Ah! that is true,” replied Porthos in a thunder’s voice; “I forgot; but be easy, I will watch myself.” And, as he said these words, he let fall a belt loaded with his sword, his pistols, and a purse whose coins escaped with a vibrating and prolonged clink.

This noise made Aramis’s blood boil, while it provoked in Porthos a tremendous burst of laughter.

“How strange that is!” he said in the same voice.

“Lower, Porthos, lower, I say!”

“It is true.”

And he did indeed lower his voice by half a tone.

“I was saying, then,” continued Porthos, “that it is strange one is never so slow as when one wishes to hurry, never so noisy as when one desires to be silent.”

“Yes, that is true; but let us give the lie to the proverb, Porthos—let us make haste and be silent.”

“You see I am doing my best,” said Porthos, pulling on his breeches.

“Very good.”

“It seems it is urgent?”

“More than urgent, it is grave, Porthos.”

“Oh! oh!”

“D’Artagnan questioned you, did he not?”

“Me?”

“Yes, at Belle-Île?”

“Not in the least.”

“Are you quite sure, Porthos?”

“Of course!”

“That is impossible. Recall it well.”

“He asked me what I was doing; I told him: ‘Topography.’ I should have liked to say another word you once used.”

“Castrametation?”

“That is it; but I could never remember it.”

“So much the better! What else did he ask you?”

“What M. Gétard was.”

“And then?”

“What M. Jupenet was.”

“He did not by chance see our plan of fortifications?”

“He did.”

“Ah! the devil!”

“But be easy, I had erased your writing with a rubber. Impossible to suppose you had kindly given me some advice in that work.”

“Our friend has very good eyes.”

“What do you fear?”

“I fear all is discovered, Porthos; it is a matter of preventing a great misfortune. I have given orders to my people to close all the doors. D’Artagnan shall not be allowed to leave before daylight. Your horse is fully saddled; you gain the first relay; by five in the morning you will have done fifteen leagues. Come.”

Then one saw Aramis dress Porthos piece by piece with as much celerity as the most skilled valet de chambre might have shown. Porthos, half confused, half bewildered, let himself be handled and drowned himself in apologies.

When he was ready, Aramis took him by the hand and led him away, making him set his foot with caution on each step of the staircase, preventing him from striking the door frames, turning him and twisting him as if he, Aramis, were the giant and Porthos the dwarf. That soul set fire to and lifted that matter. A horse, in fact, awaited, fully saddled, in the courtyard. Porthos mounted.

Then Aramis himself took the horse by the bridle and guided it over manure spread in the courtyard, with the evident intention of deadening the sound. At the same time he pinched its nostrils so that it should not neigh…

Then, once arrived at the outer gate, drawing Porthos to him, who was about to depart without even asking him why:

“Now, friend Porthos, now, without unbridling until Paris,” he said in his ear; “eat on horseback, drink on horseback, sleep on horseback, but lose not a minute.”

“Agreed; we shall not stop.”

“This letter to M. Fouquet, at all costs; he must have it tomorrow before noon.”

“He shall have it.”

“And think of one thing, dear friend.”

“Of which?”

“That you are running after your commission as duke and peer.”

“Oh! oh!” made Porthos, his eyes sparkling, “I will go in twenty-four hours then.”

“Try.”

“Then loose the bridle, and forward, Goliath!”

Aramis did indeed loose, not the bridle, but the horse’s nostrils.

Porthos gave rein, spurred with both heels, and the furious animal set off at a gallop over the ground.

As long as he could see Porthos in the night, Aramis followed him with his eyes; then, when he had lost sight of him, he re-entered the courtyard. Nothing had stirred at d’Artagnan’s.

The valet placed on guard near his door had seen no light, had heard no noise.

Aramis carefully closed the door, sent the lackey to bed, and went to bed himself.

D’Artagnan really suspected nothing; so he believed he had won all when, toward half-past four in the morning, he awoke. He ran, in his shirt only, to look from the window: the window gave onto the courtyard. Day was breaking.

The courtyard was deserted, the hens themselves had not yet left their perches.

Not a valet appeared.

All the doors were shut.

“Good! perfect calm,” said d’Artagnan to himself. “No matter, here I am awake before all the house. Let us dress; that will be so much done.”

And d’Artagnan dressed.

But this time he took care not to give the costume of M. Agnan that bourgeois and almost ecclesiastical rigidity he had formerly affected; he even knew, by tightening himself more, by buttoning in a certain way, by setting his felt hat more aslant, to restore to his person something of that military bearing whose absence had startled Aramis. This done, he used—or rather feigned to use—familiarity with his host, and entered unannounced into his apartment. Aramis was sleeping or feigning sleep.

A large book lay open on his night desk; the candle still burned above its silver tray.

That was more than enough to prove to d’Artagnan the innocence of the prelate’s night and the good intentions of his waking.

The musketeer did precisely to the bishop what the bishop had done to Porthos.

He struck him on the shoulder.

Evidently Aramis feigned sleep, for, instead of starting suddenly awake, he who had so light a sleep, he made the warning be repeated.

“Ah! ah! It is you,” he said, stretching his arms. “What a pleasant surprise! Faith, sleep had made me forget I had the happiness of possessing you. What hour is it?”

“I know not,” said d’Artagnan, a little embarrassed. “Early, I believe. But, as you know, that devilish military habit of waking with the day still holds me.”

“Do you want us to go out already, by chance?” asked Aramis. “It is very early, it seems to me.”

“As you wish.”

“I thought we had agreed to mount horse only at eight o’clock.”

“That is possible; but I had such great desire to see you, that I said to myself: ‘The sooner the better.’”

“And my seven hours of sleep?” said Aramis. “Take care, I counted on that, and what is lacking I must make up.”

“But it seems to me you were less of a sleeper than that formerly, dear friend; you had lively blood and one never found you in bed.”

“And it is precisely because of what you say there that I much like to stay there now.”

“Also, confess that it was not to sleep that you asked me to wait till eight.”

“I always fear you will mock me if I tell you the truth.”

“Tell anyway.”

“Well! from six to eight I have the habit of saying my devotions.”

“Your devotions?”

“Yes.”

“I did not think a bishop had such severe exercises.”

“A bishop, dear friend, has more to give to appearances than a simple clerk.”

“Mordioux! Aramis, that is a word which reconciles me with Your Grandeur. To appearances! That is a musketeer’s word, that, bravo! Long live appearances, Aramis!”

“Instead of congratulating me, forgive me, d’Artagnan. It is a very worldly word I let escape there.”

“Must I then leave you?”

“I need recollection, dear friend.”

“Good. I leave you; but because of that pagan called d’Artagnan, shorten them, I pray you; I thirst for your word.”

“Well! d’Artagnan, I promise you that in an hour and a half…”

“An hour and a half of devotions? Ah! my friend, grant me that at the very least. Make me the best bargain you can.”

Aramis began to laugh.

“Always charming, always young, always gay,” said he. “See, you have come into my diocese to quarrel me with grace.”

“Bah!”

“And you know well I never resisted your leadings; you will cost me my salvation, d’Artagnan.”

D’Artagnan pinched his lips.

“Come,” said he, “I take the sin on my account, unbuckle me a simple Christian’s sign of the cross, unbuckle me a Pater and let us depart.”

“Hush!” said Aramis, “we are no longer alone, and I hear strangers coming up.”

“Well! dismiss them.”

“Impossible; I gave them appointment yesterday: it is the principal of the Jesuit college and the superior of the Dominicans.”

“Your staff, so be it.”

“What will you do?”

“I am going to wake Porthos and wait in his company till you have finished your conferences.”

Aramis did not move, did not blink, did not hasten either his gesture or his speech.

“Go,” said he.

D’Artagnan advanced toward the door.

“By the way, you know where Porthos lodges?”

“No; but I will inquire.”

“Take the corridor, and open the second door on the left.”

“Thanks! Farewell.”

And d’Artagnan withdrew in the direction indicated by Aramis.

Ten minutes had not elapsed when he returned. He found Aramis seated between the principal of the Jesuit college and the superior of the Dominicans, exactly in the same situation where he had formerly found him in the inn of Crèvecœur.

This company did not frighten the musketeer.

“What is it?” said Aramis quietly. “You have something to tell me, it seems, dear friend?”

“It is,” answered d’Artagnan, looking at Aramis, “it is that Porthos is not in his room.”

“Indeed!” made Aramis with calm; “are you sure?”

“Pardieu! I have just come from his chamber.”

“Where can he be then?”

“I ask you.”

“And you did not inquire?”

“I did.”

“And what were you told?”

“That Porthos, often going out in the morning without saying anything to anyone, had probably gone out.”

“What did you do then?”

“I went to the stable,” replied d’Artagnan indifferently.

“For what purpose?”

“To see if Porthos had gone out on horseback.”

“And?…” questioned the bishop.

“Well! there is a horse missing from the rack, number 5, Goliath.”

All this dialogue, one understands, was not without a certain affectation on the part of the musketeer and a perfect complaisance on the part of Aramis.

“Oh! I see what it is,” said Aramis after dreaming a moment: “Porthos has gone out to make us a surprise.”

“A surprise?”

“Yes. The canal which goes from Vannes to the sea is very full of game in teal and snipe; it is Porthos’s favorite hunting. He will bring us a dozen for our breakfast.”

“You think so?” made d’Artagnan.

“I am sure of it. Where would you have him gone? I wager he took a gun.”

“That is possible,” said d’Artagnan.

“Do one thing, dear friend, mount horse and join him.”

“You are right,” said d’Artagnan, “I am going.”

“Will you have someone accompany you?”

“No, thanks, Porthos is recognizable. I will ask.”

“Will you take an arquebus?”

“Thanks.”

“Have saddled the horse you wish.”

“The one I was riding yesterday coming from Belle-Île.”

“Be it; use the house as your own.”

Aramis rang and gave order to saddle the horse d’Artagnan should choose.

D’Artagnan followed the servant charged with executing this order.

Arrived at the door, the servant stepped aside to let d’Artagnan pass. At that moment his eye met his master’s eye. A frown made the intelligent spy understand that d’Artagnan was being given what he had to do.

D’Artagnan mounted; Aramis heard the noise of irons striking the pavement.

An instant after, the servant returned.

“Well?” asked the bishop.

“My lord, he follows the canal and directs himself toward the sea,” said the servant.

“Good!” said Aramis.

Indeed, d’Artagnan, dismissing all suspicion, ran toward the ocean, always hoping to see in the moors or on the shore the colossal silhouette of his friend Porthos.

D’Artagnan persisted in recognizing horse steps in every pool of water. Sometimes he fancied he heard the detonation of a firearm. This illusion lasted three hours. For two hours, d’Artagnan sought Porthos.

During the third, he returned to the house.

“We must have crossed,” said he, “and I am going to find the two guests awaiting my return.”

D’Artagnan was mistaken. He found no more Porthos at the bishop’s palace than he had found him on the bank of the canal.

Aramis awaited him at the top of the staircase with a desperate air.

“Did they not rejoin you, my dear d’Artagnan?” he cried from as far as he caught sight of the musketeer.

“No. Would you have had them run after me?”

“Sorrowful, my dear friend, sorrowful to have made you run uselessly; but, toward seven o’clock, the chaplain of Saint-Paterne came; he had met du Vallon going away and who, not wishing to wake anyone at the bishop’s palace, had charged him to tell me that, fearing M. Gétard might play him some ill trick in his absence, he was going to profit by the morning tide to make a turn to Belle-Île.”

“But, tell me, Goliath has not crossed the four leagues of sea, it seems to me?”

“There are well six,” said Aramis.

“Still less, then.”

“Also, dear friend,” said the prelate with a sweet smile, “Goliath is in the stable, very satisfied even, I warrant, at no longer having Porthos on his back.”

Indeed, the horse had been brought back from the relay by the prelate’s care, from whom no detail escaped.

D’Artagnan appeared more than satisfied with the explanation.

He began a role of dissimulation which suited perfectly the suspicions that accentuated themselves more and more in his mind. He breakfasted between the Jesuit and Aramis, having the Dominican opposite him and smiling particularly at the Dominican, whose good fat face rather pleased him.

The meal was long and sumptuous; excellent Spanish wine, fine oysters of Morbihan, the exquisite fish of the Loire’s mouth, the enormous prawns of Paimbœuf and the delicate game of the heaths furnished it.

D’Artagnan ate much and drank little. Aramis did not drink at all, or at least drank only water. Then after breakfast:

“You offered me an arquebus?” said d’Artagnan.

“Yes.”

“Lend it to me.”

“You wish to hunt?”

“While waiting for Porthos, that is the best I can do, I think.”

“Take whichever you will from the trophy.”

“Are you coming with me?”

“Alas! dear friend, it would be with great pleasure, but hunting is forbidden to bishops.”

“Ah!” said d’Artagnan, “I did not know that.”

“Besides,” continued Aramis, “I am busy till noon.”

“I shall go alone then?” said d’Artagnan.

“Alas! yes! but come back to dine above all.”

“Pardieu! one eats too well at your house for me not to return.”

And thereupon d’Artagnan left his host, saluted the guests, took his arquebus, but, instead of hunting, ran straight to the little port of Vannes.

He looked in vain if he were followed; he saw nothing nor anyone.

He freighted a small fishing vessel for twenty-five livres and departed at half-past eleven, convinced he had not been followed. He had not been followed, that was true. Only, a Jesuit brother, placed at the top of his church steeple, had not, since morning, with the aid of an excellent telescope, lost a single one of his steps. At a quarter to twelve, Aramis was warned that d’Artagnan was sailing toward Belle-Île.

D’Artagnan’s voyage was rapid: a good north-north-east wind pushed him toward Belle-Île.

As he approached, his eyes questioned the coast. He sought to see, either on the shore or above the fortifications, the flashing habit of Porthos and his vast stature detaching itself against a slightly cloudy sky.

D’Artagnan sought uselessly; he landed without having seen anything, and learned from the first soldier he questioned that M. du Vallon had not yet returned from Vannes.

Then, without losing an instant, d’Artagnan ordered his little boat to set course for Sarzeau.

One knows that the wind turns with the different hours of the day; the wind had passed from north-north-east to south-east; the wind was thus almost as good for the return to Sarzeau as it had been for the voyage to Belle-Île. In three hours, d’Artagnan had touched the continent; two other hours sufficed him to gain Vannes.

Despite the rapidity of the passage, what d’Artagnan devoured of impatience and spite during that crossing, the sole bridge of the boat on which he stamped for three hours could tell it to history. D’Artagnan made but one bound from the quay where he had landed to the episcopal palace.

He counted on terrifying Aramis by the promptness of his return, and he wished to reproach him for his duplicity, with reserve however, but with enough spirit nevertheless to make him feel all the consequences and wring from him a part of his secret.

He hoped finally, thanks to that verve of expression which is to mysteries what the bayonet charge is to redoubts, to carry the mysterious Aramis even to some manifestation.

But he found in the vestibule of the palace the valet de chambre who barred his passage while smiling at him with a beatific air.

“My lord?” cried d’Artagnan, trying to push him aside with his hand.

An instant shaken, the valet recovered his composure.

“My lord?” said he.

“Eh! yes, doubtless; do you not recognize me, imbecile?”

“I do; you are the Chevalier d’Artagnan.”

“Then let me pass.”

“Useless.”

“Why useless?”

“Because His Grandeur is not at home.”

“How, His Grandeur is not at home! But where is he then?”

“Gone.”

“Gone?”

“Yes.”

“For where?”

“I know nothing; but perhaps he says it to the Chevalier.”

“How? where? in what manner?”

“In this letter she gave me for the Chevalier.”

And the valet de chambre drew a letter from his pocket.

“Eh! give it then, knave!” made d’Artagnan, snatching it from his hands. “Oh! yes,” continued d’Artagnan at the first line; “yes, I understand.”

And he read half aloud:

“Dear friend, A most urgent affair calls me to one of the parishes of my diocese.

I hoped to see you before departing; but I lose that hope in thinking you will doubtless stay two or three days at Belle-Île with our dear Porthos.

Amuse yourself well, but do not try to hold your own against him at table; that is a counsel I should not have given, even to Athos, in his finest and best time.

Farewell, dear friend; believe well that I am in regrets at not having better and longer profited by your excellent company.”

“Mordioux!” cried d’Artagnan, “I am played. Ah! dolt, brute, triple fool that I am! but he laughs best who laughs last—oh! duped, duped like a monkey to whom one gives an empty walnut!”

And, ramming a fist on the still laughing snout of the valet de chambre, he dashed out of the episcopal palace.

Furet, good trotter though he was, was no longer equal to the circumstances. D’Artagnan therefore gained the post, and there chose a horse to whom he showed, with good spurs and a light hand, that stags are not the most agile runners of creation.

Chapter LXXIV — Where d’Artagnan runs, where Porthos snores, where Aramis advises

Thirty to thirty-five hours after the events we have just related, as M. Fouquet, according to his habit, having forbidden his door, worked in that cabinet of his house at Saint-Mandé which we already know, a carriage harnessed with four horses streaming with sweat entered at a gallop into the courtyard.

This carriage was probably expected, for three or four lackeys precipitated themselves toward the door, which they opened while M. Fouquet rose from his desk and ran himself to the window. A man issued painfully from the carriage, descending with difficulty the three steps of the footboard and leaning on the shoulder of the lackeys.

Scarcely had he said his name, than the one on whose shoulder he did not lean sprang toward the perron and disappeared in the vestibule. That man ran to warn his master; but he had no need to knock at the door.

Fouquet was standing on the threshold.

“Monseigneur the Bishop of Vannes!” said the lackey.

“Good!” said Fouquet.

Then, leaning over the banister of the staircase, up whose first steps Aramis was beginning to mount:

“You, dear friend,” said he, “you so soon!”

“Yes, myself, sir; but bruised, broken, as you see.”

“Oh! poor dear,” said Fouquet, presenting his arm, on which Aramis leaned, while the servants withdrew with respect.

“Bah!” answered Aramis, “it is nothing, since here I am; the main thing was that I should arrive, and here I am arrived.”

“Speak quickly,” said Fouquet, closing the cabinet door behind Aramis and himself.

“Are we alone?”

“Yes, perfectly alone.”

“No one can listen to us? no one can hear us?”

“Be easy then.”

“Has M. du Vallon arrived?”

“Yes.”

“And you received my letter?”

“Yes, the affair is grave, it appears, since it requires your presence in Paris, at a moment when your presence was so urgent there.”

“You are right, graver than can be.”

“Thanks, thanks! Of what is it a question? But, for God’s sake, and before all, breathe, dear friend; you are pale enough to make one shudder!”

“I suffer, indeed; but, I pray you! pay no attention to me. Did M. du Vallon say nothing to you in handing you his letter?”

“Stories of the world, in your language.”