Part 8

The archers had torn his clothes, and they were dragging him along. He demanded to be treated with respect, claiming to be a gentleman and a soldier.

He caught sight of our soldier walking in the street, and cried out:

— Soldier, to me!

The soldier walked at the same pace toward the one who hailed him, and the crowd followed him.

An idea then came to d'Artagnan.

It was the first one: we shall see that it was not a bad one.

While the torn gentleman was telling the soldier that he had just been caught in a house as a thief, whereas he was only a lover, the soldier pitied him and gave him consolations and advice with that gravity which the French soldier puts at the service of his self-esteem and his esprit de corps. D'Artagnan slipped behind the soldier, pressed upon by the crowd, and neatly and swiftly drew the paper from his belt.

As, at that moment, the torn gentleman was tugging at the soldier, as the commissary was tugging at the gentleman, d'Artagnan was able to effect his capture without the slightest inconvenience.

He placed himself ten paces behind a house pillar, and read the address:

«To M. du Vallon, at M. Fouquet's, at Saint-Mandé.»

— Good, said he.

And he broke the seal without tearing, then drew out the paper folded in four, which contained only these words:

«Dear M. du Vallon, be so kind as to have it told to M. d'Herblay that he came to the Bastille and questioned.

«Your devoted,

«De Baisemeaux.»

— Well! that's more like it, cried d'Artagnan, that is perfectly clear. Porthos is in on it.

Sure of what he wished to know:

«Mordioux! thought the musketeer, here is a poor devil of a soldier whom that sly madman Baisemeaux is going to make pay dearly for my trick... If he returns without a letter... what will they do to him? Come to think of it, I have no need of that letter; once the egg is swallowed, what good are the shells?»

D'Artagnan saw that the commissary and the archers had convinced the soldier and were continuing to lead away their prisoner.

The latter remained surrounded by the crowd and continued his lamentations.

D'Artagnan came into the midst of them all and let the letter fall without anyone seeing him, then he moved rapidly away. The soldier resumed his route toward Saint-Mandé, thinking a great deal of that gentleman who had implored his protection.

Suddenly he thought a little of his letter, and, looking at his belt, he saw it stripped. His cry of fright delighted d'Artagnan.

The poor soldier cast his eyes all around him in anguish, and at last, behind him, twenty paces off, he caught sight of the blessed envelope. He swooped down upon it like a falcon on its prey.

The envelope was indeed a bit dusty, a bit crumpled, but at last the letter was recovered.

D'Artagnan saw that the broken seal greatly occupied the soldier. The worthy man ended, however, by consoling himself; he put the paper back in his belt.

«Go, said d'Artagnan, I have time now; go ahead of me. It appears Aramis is not in Paris, since Baisemeaux writes to Porthos. That dear Porthos, what joy to see him again... and to talk with him!» said the Gascon.

And, regulating his pace to that of the soldier, he promised himself to arrive a quarter of an hour after him at M. Fouquet's.

Chapter CXLII — Wherein the reader will see with pleasure that Porthos has lost nothing of his strength

D'Artagnan had, according to his habit, calculated that each hour is worth sixty minutes and each minute sixty seconds.

Thanks to this perfectly exact calculation of minutes and seconds, he arrived before the superintendent's gate at the very moment when the soldier was leaving it with empty belt.

D'Artagnan presented himself at the gate, which a porter, embroidered on every seam, held half-open for him.

D'Artagnan would gladly have entered without naming himself, but there was no way. He named himself.

Despite this concession, which should have removed all difficulty, d'Artagnan thought at least, the porter hesitated; however, at this title repeated for the second time, captain of the king's guards, the porter, without wholly giving passage, ceased to block him completely.

D'Artagnan understood that a formidable order had been given.

He decided therefore to lie, which, moreover, did not cost him too dearly, when he saw beyond the lie the salvation of the State, or even purely and simply his personal interest.

He added therefore, to the declarations already made by him, that the soldier who had just brought a letter to M. du Vallon was none other than his messenger, and that this letter had for its object to announce his arrival, his own.

From then on, no one opposed d'Artagnan's entry any longer, and d'Artagnan entered.

A valet wished to accompany him, but he replied that it was useless to take that trouble on his account, seeing that he knew perfectly well where M. du Vallon was to be found.

There was nothing to answer to a man so completely informed.

They let d'Artagnan do as he pleased.

Perrons, salons, gardens, all were reviewed by the musketeer. He walked a quarter of an hour in that more than royal house, which counted as many marvels as pieces of furniture, as many servants as columns and doors.

«Decidedly, said he to himself, this house has no other limits than the limits of the earth. Would Porthos have taken it into his head to return to Pierrefonds, without leaving M. Fouquet's?»

At last, he arrived in a remote part of the château, enclosed by a wall of cut stone on which climbed an abundance of succulent plants streaming with flowers, large and solid as fruits.

At intervals, upon the enclosing wall, rose statues in timid or mysterious poses. There were vestals hidden under the peplum with great folds; agile watchers enclosed in their marble veils and brooding over the palace with furtive glances.

An Hermes, finger on mouth, an Iris with outspread wings, a Night all bedewed with poppies, dominated the gardens and the buildings glimpsed behind the trees; all these statues profiled in white against the tall cypresses, which darted their black summits toward the sky.

Around these cypresses had wound century-old rosebushes, which attached their flowered rings to every fork of the branches and sowed upon the lower boughs and upon the statues showers of perfumed flowers.

These enchantments appeared to the musketeer the supreme effort of the human mind. He was in a disposition of mind to poetize. The idea that Porthos inhabited such an Eden gave him of Porthos a higher idea, so true is it that the most elevated spirits are not exempt from the influence of their surroundings.

D'Artagnan found the door; at the door, a kind of spring which he discovered and made play. The door opened.

D'Artagnan entered, closed the door again and penetrated into a pavilion built in a rotunda, and in which no other noise was heard than that of the cascades and the songs of birds.

At the pavilion door, he met a lackey.

— It is here, said d'Artagnan without hesitation, that the Baron du Vallon lives, is it not.

— Yes, monsieur, replied the lackey.

— Inform him that the Chevalier d'Artagnan, captain in His Majesty's musketeers, awaits him.

D'Artagnan was shown into a salon.

D'Artagnan did not remain long in expectation: a well-known step shook the flooring of the adjoining room, a door opened or rather gave way, and Porthos came to throw himself into his friend's arms with a sort of embarrassment that did not ill become him.

— You here? he cried.

— And you? replied d'Artagnan. Ah! sly one!

— Yes, said Porthos with an embarrassed smile, yes, you find me at M. Fouquet's, and that astonishes you a little, does it not?

— Not at all; why should you not be friends of M. Fouquet? M. Fouquet has a good number of friends, especially among men of wit.

Porthos had the modesty not to take the compliment to himself.

— Then, added he, you saw me at Belle-Île.

— All the more reason for me to be inclined to believe that you are friends of M. Fouquet.

— The fact is that I know him, said Porthos with a certain embarrassment.

— Ah! my friend, said d'Artagnan, how guilty you are toward me!

— How so? cried Porthos.

— How! you accomplish a work as admirable as that of the fortifications of Belle-Île, and you do not warn me of it.

Porthos reddened.

— There is more, continued d'Artagnan, you see me there; you know that I am with the king, and you do not guess that the king, jealous to know who is the man of merit who accomplishes a work of which the most magnificent accounts are given him, you do not guess that the king sent me to know who this man was?

— What! the king had sent you to know...

— Pardieu! But let us speak of it no more.

— Ox horn! said Porthos, on the contrary, let us speak of it; thus, the king knew that one was fortifying Belle-Île?

— Come now! does the king not know everything?

— But he did not know who was fortifying it?

— No; only, he suspected, from what had been told him of the works, that it was an illustrious man of war.

— The devil! said Porthos, if I had known that.

— You would not have fled from Vannes, would you?

— No. What did you say when you no longer found me?

— My dear, I reflected.

— Ah! yes, you reflect, you... And where did reflecting lead you?

— To guessing the whole truth.

— Ah! you guessed?

— Yes.

— What did you guess? Let us see, said Porthos, settling himself in an armchair and putting on the airs of a sphinx.

— I guessed, first, that you were fortifying Belle-Île.

— Ah! that was not very difficult, you saw me at work.

— Wait, though; but I guessed something else besides, which is that you were fortifying Belle-Île by order of M. Fouquet.

— That is true.

— That is not all. When I am in the way of guessing, I do not stop on the road.

— That dear d'Artagnan!

— I guessed that M. Fouquet wished to keep the deepest secrecy upon these fortifications.

— That was his intention, indeed, as I believe, said Porthos.

— Yes; but do you know why he wished to keep this secrecy?

— Why! so that the thing should not be known, said Porthos.

— First of all. But this desire was subjected to the idea of a gallantry...

— Indeed, said Porthos, I have heard it said that M. Fouquet was very gallant.

— To the idea of a gallantry he wished to do the king.

— Oh! oh!

— That astonishes you?

— Yes.

— You did not know that?

— No.

— Well! I know it, I.

— You are a sorcerer then.

— Not in the least.

— How do you know it, then?

— Ah! there! by a very simple means! I heard M. Fouquet say it himself to the king.

— Say what?

— That he had had Belle-Île fortified for his benefit, and that he was making a gift of Belle-Île to him.

— Ah! you heard M. Fouquet say that to the king?

— In so many words. He even added: «Belle-Île has been fortified by an engineer of my friends, a man of much merit, whom I shall ask permission to present to the king.» — «His name?» asked the king. «The Baron du Vallon», answered M. Fouquet. «Very well, answered the king, you shall present him to me.»

— The king answered that?

— Faith of d'Artagnan!

— Oh! oh! said Porthos. But why was I not presented, then?

— Were you not spoken to of this presentation?

— Yes, but I am still awaiting it.

— Rest easy, it will come.

— Hum! hum! grumbled Porthos.

D'Artagnan pretended not to hear, and, changing the conversation:

— But you dwell in a very solitary place, dear friend, it seems to me? he asked.

— I have always loved isolation. I am melancholy, answered Porthos with a sigh.

— Well! that is strange, said d'Artagnan, I had not noticed that.

— It is since I gave myself to study, said Porthos with a worried air.

— But the labors of the mind have not harmed the health of the body, I hope?

— Oh! not at all.

— The strength is still good?

— Too good, my friend, too good.

— It is that I had heard it said that, in the first days of your arrival...

— Yes, I could no longer move, was it not?

— How, said d'Artagnan with a smile, and on what account could you no longer move?

Porthos understood that he had said a foolish thing and wished to recover himself.

— Yes, I came from Belle-Île here on bad horses, said he, and that had fatigued me.

— That no longer astonishes me, that, I who came behind you, I found seven or eight of them dead on the road.

— I am heavy, you see, said Porthos.

— So that you were bruised all over?

— The fat melted off me, and that melting made me sick.

— Ah! poor Porthos!... And Aramis, how was he to you in all that?

— Very well... He had me cared for by M. Fouquet's own physician. But imagine that at the end of eight days I could no longer breathe.

— How so?

— The room was too small: I absorbed too much air.

— Really?

— As I was told, at least... And they transported me to another lodging.

— Where you breathed, this time?

— More freely, yes; but no exercise, nothing to do. The physician claimed that I should not stir; I, on the contrary, felt myself stronger than ever. That gave birth to a grave accident.

— To what accident?

— Imagine to yourself, dear friend, that I revolted against the prescriptions of that imbecile of a physician and that I resolved to go out, whether it suited him or not. Accordingly, I ordered the valet who served me to bring my clothes.

— You were quite naked then, my poor Porthos?

— Not at all, I had a magnificent dressing gown, on the contrary. The lackey obeyed; I clothed myself in my garments, which had become too wide; but, strange thing, my feet had become too wide, themselves.

— Yes, I understand well.

— And my boots had become too narrow.

— Your feet had remained swollen.

— Why! you guessed it.

— Parbleu! And is that the accident you wished to speak to me of?

— Ah well! yes! I did not make the same reflection as you. I said to myself: «Since my feet have entered my boots ten times, there is no reason why they should not enter an eleventh.»

— This time, my dear Porthos, permit me to tell you, you lacked logic.

— In short, I was then placed facing a partition; I tried to put on my right boot; I pulled with my hands, I pushed with my thigh, making unheard-of efforts, when, all at once, the two ears of my boots remained in my hands; my foot shot forth like a catapult.

— Catapult! How strong you are on fortifications, dear Porthos!

— My foot therefore shot forth like a catapult and met the partition, which it caved in. My friend, I believed that, like Samson, I had demolished the temple. What fell from that blow of pictures, of porcelains, of flower vases, of tapestries, of curtain rods, is unheard of.

— Truly!

— Not to mention that on the other side of the partition was a shelf loaded with porcelains.

— Which you overturned?

— Which I launched to the other end of the other room.

Porthos began to laugh.

— In truth, as you say, it is unheard of!

And d'Artagnan began to laugh like Porthos.

Porthos, immediately, began to laugh louder than d'Artagnan.

— I broke, said Porthos in a voice broken by that growing hilarity, for more than three thousand francs of porcelains, oh! oh! oh!...

— Good! said d'Artagnan.

— I crushed for more than four thousand francs of mirrors, oh! oh! oh!...

— Excellent!

— Not to mention a chandelier which fell right on my head and which was broken into a thousand pieces, oh! oh! oh!...

— On the head? said d'Artagnan, who was holding his sides.

— Squarely!

— But you had your head broken?

— No, since I tell you, on the contrary, that it is the chandelier which broke like the glass it was.

— Ah! the chandelier was of glass?

— Of Venetian glass; a curiosity, my dear, a piece that had no equal, a piece which weighed two hundred pounds.

— And which fell on your head?

— On... the... head!... Imagine a globe of crystal all gilded, all encrusted beneath, perfumes which burned above, nozzles which threw flame when they were lit.

— Of course; but they were not?

— Happily, I should have been set on fire.

— And you were only flattened?

— No.

— How, no.

— No, the chandelier fell on my skull. We have there, it appears, at the top of the head, an excessively solid crust.

— Who told you that, Porthos?

— The physician. A kind of dome which would support Notre-Dame of Paris.

— Bah!

— Yes, it appears we have the skull made thus.

— Speak for yourself, dear friend; it is your skull which is made thus and not that of others.

— That is possible, said Porthos with fatuity; so it is that, at the fall of the chandelier on that dome we have at the top of the head, it was a noise like the detonation of a cannon; the crystal was broken and I fell all inundated.

— With blood, poor Porthos!

— No, with perfumes which smelled like creams; it was excellent, but it smelled too good, I was as if stunned by that good odor; you have experienced that sometimes, have you not, d'Artagnan?

— Yes, in breathing lily of the valley; so that, my poor friend, you were overthrown by the shock and deafened by the smell.

— But what is particular, and the physician affirmed to me, on his honor, that he had never seen anything like it...

— You had at least a bump? interrupted d'Artagnan.

— I had five.

— Why five?

— Wait: the chandelier had, at its lower extremity, five extremely sharp gilded ornaments.

— Ouch!

— These five ornaments penetrated into my hair, which I wear very thick, as you see.

— Fortunately.

— And imprinted themselves in my skin. But, see the singularity, these things happen only to me! Instead of making hollows, they made bumps. The physician could never explain that to me in a satisfactory manner.

— Well! I am going to explain it to you, I.

— You will do me a service, said Porthos, winking his eyes, which was with him the sign of attention carried to the highest degree.

— Since you have been making your brain function at lofty studies, at important calculations, the head has profited; so that you now have a head too full of science.

— You believe so?

— I am sure of it. It results from that that, instead of letting anything foreign penetrate into the interior of the head, your bony box, which is already too full, profits from the openings which form therein to let escape that overflow.

— Ah! said Porthos, to whom this explanation appeared clearer than that of the physician.

— The five protuberances caused by the five ornaments of the chandelier were certainly scientific masses, brought externally by the force of things.

— Indeed, said Porthos, and the proof is that it hurt me more outside than inside. I will even confess to you that, when I put my hat on my head, pressing it down with the fist with that gracious energy we possess, we gentlemen of the sword, well! if my blow of the fist was not perfectly measured, I felt extreme pains.

— Porthos, I believe you.

— Also, my good friend, said the giant, M. Fouquet decided, seeing the little solidity of the house, to give me another lodging. They put me accordingly here.

— It is the reserved park, is it not?

— Yes.

— That of the assignations? that which is so celebrated in the mysterious histories of the superintendent?

— I do not know: I have had there neither assignation nor mysterious histories; but I am authorized to exercise my muscles there, and I profit from the permission by uprooting trees.

— To what end?

— To keep my hand in, and then to take birds' nests therein: I find that more convenient than climbing up them.

— You are pastoral like Tircis, my dear Porthos.

— Yes, I love the little eggs; I love them infinitely more than the big ones. You have no idea how delicate it is, an omelet of four or five hundred eggs of greenfinch, of finch, of starling, of blackbird and of thrush.

— But five hundred eggs, that is monstrous!

— It fits in a salad bowl, said Porthos.

D'Artagnan admired Porthos for five minutes, as if he saw him for the first time.

As for Porthos, he expanded joyously under the gaze of his friend.

They remained thus some instants, d'Artagnan looking, Porthos expanding.

D'Artagnan was evidently seeking to give a new turn to the conversation.

— Do you amuse yourself much here, Porthos? he asked at last, no doubt when he had found what he sought.

— Not always.

— I conceive that; but, when you are too much bored, what will you do?

— Oh! I am not here for long. Aramis awaits that my last bump has disappeared to present me to the king, who cannot suffer bumps, as I have been told.

— Aramis is then still in Paris?

— No.

— And where is he?

— At Fontainebleau.

— Alone?

— With M. Fouquet.

— Very well. But do you know one thing?

— No. Tell it to me and I shall know it.

— It is that I believe Aramis forgets you.

— You believe so?

— Yonder, you see, they laugh, they dance, they feast, they make the wines of M. de Mazarin pop. Do you know there is a ballet every evening, yonder?

— The devil! the devil!

— I declare to you then that your dear Aramis forgets you.

— That could well be, and I have thought it sometimes.

— Unless he betrays you, the sly one!

— Oh!

— You know it, Aramis is a fine fox.

— Yes, but to betray me...

— Listen; first, he sequesters you.

— How, he sequesters me! I am sequestered, I?

— Pardieu!

— I should like you to prove that to me?

— Nothing easier. Do you go out?

— Never.

— Do you mount on horseback?

— Never.

— Do they let your friends reach you?

— Never.

— Well! my friend, never to go out, never to mount on horseback, never to see one's friends, that is called being sequestered.

— And why would Aramis sequester me? asked Porthos.

— Let us see, said d'Artagnan, be frank, Porthos.

— As gold.

— It is Aramis who made the plan of the fortifications of Belle-Île, is it not?

Porthos reddened.

— Yes, said he, but that is all he did.

— Exactly, and my opinion is that it is not a very great matter.

— It is mine also.

— Good; I am delighted that we are of the same opinion.

— He never even came to Belle-Île, said Porthos.

— You see well.

— It is I who went to Vannes, as you were able to see.

— Say as I saw. Well! that is just the affair, my dear Porthos, Aramis, who did only the plans, would like to pass for the engineer; whereas, you who built stone by stone the wall, the citadel and the bastions, he would like to relegate you to the rank of builder.

— Of builder, that is to say of mason?

— Of mason, that is it.

— Of mortar mixer?

— Exactly.

— Of laborer?

— You have it.

— Oh! oh! dear Aramis, you believe yourself still twenty-five years old, it appears?

— That is not all: he believes you fifty.

— I should have liked to see him at the work.

— Yes.

— A fellow who has the gout.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”