Part 24

"Instead of mailing the letter, which is never certain, I took advantage of the opportunity presented by one of my lads who was going to Paris, and I ordered him to deliver it to the duchess herself. That was carrying out Monsieur Porthos's intentions, since he had so strongly recommended that letter to us, was it not?"

"More or less."

"Well, monsieur, do you know who this great lady is?"

"No; I've heard Porthos speak of her, that's all."

"Do you know what this so-called duchess is?"

"I tell you again, I do not know her."

"She is an old procureuse at the Châtelet, monsieur, named Madame Coquenard, who is at least fifty years old, and still puts on airs of being jealous. That seemed quite strange to me, too—a princess who lives on Rue aux Ours."

"How do you know that?"

"Because she flew into a great rage upon receiving the letter, saying that Monsieur Porthos was fickle, and that it was still on account of some woman that he had received that sword thrust."

"So he did receive a sword thrust?"

"Oh, my God! What did I just say?"

"You said that Porthos had received a sword thrust."

"Yes; but he had so strongly forbidden me to say so!"

"Why?"

"Well, monsieur, because he had boasted of running through that stranger with whom you left him arguing, and it was that stranger, on the contrary, who, despite all his blustering, laid him flat on the ground. Now, since Monsieur Porthos is a very vainglorious man, except toward the duchess, whom he thought to interest by telling her the story of his adventure, he does not want to admit to anyone that it is a sword thrust he received."

"So it is a sword thrust that keeps him in bed?"

"And a masterful sword thrust, I assure you. Your friend must have the devil's own luck."

"Were you there, then?"

"Monsieur, I followed them out of curiosity, so that I saw the fight without the fighters seeing me."

"And how did it happen?"

"Oh! The thing was not long, I promise you. They took their guard; the stranger made a feint and lunged; all so quickly that when Monsieur Porthos reached the parry, he already had three inches of steel in his chest. He fell backward. The stranger immediately put the point of his sword to his throat; and Monsieur Porthos, seeing himself at the mercy of his adversary, admitted defeat. Whereupon the stranger asked him his name, and learning that he was called Monsieur Porthos, and not Monsieur d'Artagnan, offered him his arm, brought him back to the inn, mounted his horse, and disappeared."

"So it was Monsieur d'Artagnan that stranger was after?"

"So it seems."

"And do you know what became of him?"

"No; I had never seen him until that moment, and we have not seen him since."

"Very well; I know what I wanted to know. Now, you say that Porthos's room is on the first floor, number one?"

"Yes, monsieur, the finest in the inn; a room I have had ten occasions already to rent."

"Bah! Be reassured," said d'Artagnan, laughing, "Porthos will pay you with duchess Coquenard's money."

"Oh, monsieur, procureuse or duchess, if she were to loosen the strings of her purse, that would be nothing; but she positively replied that she was tired of Monsieur Porthos's demands and infidelities, and that she would not send him a penny."

"And did you deliver that answer to your guest?"

"We took good care not to; he would have seen how we had carried out the commission."

"So he is still waiting for his money?"

"Oh, my God, yes! Just yesterday he wrote again; but this time, it was his servant who put the letter in the post."

"And you say the procureuse is old and ugly?"

"At least fifty, monsieur, and not at all pretty, according to what Pathaud said."

"In that case, rest assured, she will let herself be softened; besides, Porthos cannot owe you much."

"What, not much! Twenty pistoles already, not counting the doctor. Oh! He denies himself nothing, I tell you! One can see he is used to living well."

"Well, if his mistress abandons him, he will find friends, I assure you. So, my dear host, have no worries, and continue to give him all the care his condition requires."

"Monsieur promised me not to speak of the procureuse and not to say a word about the wound."

"That is agreed; you have my word."

"Oh! Because he would kill me, you see!"

"Have no fear; he is not as devilish as he looks."

Saying these words, d'Artagnan went up the stairs, leaving his host somewhat more reassured about two things that seemed to matter greatly to him: his debt and his life.

At the top of the stairs, on the most conspicuous door in the corridor, a gigantic number 1 was traced in black ink; d'Artagnan knocked once, and upon the invitation from inside to enter, he went in.

Porthos was lying in bed, playing a game of lansquenet with Mousqueton to keep his hand in, while a spit loaded with partridges turned before the fire, and at each corner of a large fireplace, two saucepans were boiling on two braziers, giving off a double odor of fricassee and fish stew that delighted the nostrils. Moreover, the top of a writing desk and the marble of a chest of drawers were covered with empty bottles.

At the sight of his friend, Porthos let out a great cry of joy; and Mousqueton, rising respectfully, yielded his place to him and went to cast an eye over the two saucepans, which he seemed to have under his particular supervision.

"Ah, by God! It's you," said Porthos to d'Artagnan, "welcome, and excuse me if I do not come to meet you. But," he added, looking at d'Artagnan with a certain unease, "you know what happened to me?"

"No."

"The host told you nothing?"

"I asked after you, and came straight up."

Porthos seemed to breathe more freely.

"And what happened to you, then, my dear Porthos?" continued d'Artagnan.

"What happened is that while lunging at my adversary, to whom I had already dealt three sword thrusts, and whom I wanted to finish with a fourth, my foot stepped on a stone, and I sprained my knee."

"Indeed?"

"On my honor! Lucky for the scoundrel, for I would have left him dead on the spot, I assure you."

"And what became of him?"

"Oh! I know nothing; he had enough and left without asking for more; but you, my dear d'Artagnan, what happened to you?"

"So," continued d'Artagnan, "this sprain, my dear Porthos, keeps you in bed?"

"Ah, my God, yes, that's all; besides, in a few days I'll be on my feet."

"Why, then, didn't you have yourself taken to Paris? You must be terribly bored here."

"That was my intention; but, my dear friend, I must confess something to you."

"What is it?"

"That, since I was terribly bored, as you say, and had the seventy-five pistoles you distributed to me in my pocket, I, to amuse myself, summoned to my side a gentleman who was passing through, and I proposed a game of dice. He accepted, and, upon my word, my seventy-five pistoles went from my pocket into his, not counting my horse, which he also took on top of it. But you, my dear d'Artagnan?"

"What do you expect, my dear Porthos? One cannot be lucky in every way," said d'Artagnan; "you know the proverb: 'Unlucky at play, lucky in love.' You are too lucky in love for luck at play not to take its revenge; but what do the reversals of fortune matter to you! Do you not have, you lucky rogue, your duchess, who cannot fail to come to your aid?"

"Well, you see, my dear d'Artagnan, how unlucky I am," replied Porthos with the most carefree air in the world. "I wrote to her to send me some fifty louis, which I absolutely needed, given the position I was in..."

"Well?"

"Well, she must be on her estates, because she did not reply."

"Really?"

"No. So I sent her a second epistle yesterday, even more urgent than the first; but here you are, my very dear friend, let us talk about you. I confess, I was beginning to grow somewhat anxious about you."

"But your host seems to treat you well, my dear Porthos," said d'Artagnan, showing the invalid the full saucepans and the empty bottles.

"So-so!" replied Porthos. "Three or four days ago, the impertinent fellow brought me his bill, and I sent both him and his bill packing; so here I am, like a kind of victor, a kind of conqueror. So, you see, always fearing to be forced into a position, I am armed to the teeth."

"Nevertheless," said d'Artagnan, laughing, "it seems to me that from time to time you make sorties."

And he pointed with his finger at the bottles and saucepans.

"No, not I, unfortunately!" said Porthos. "This wretched sprain keeps me in bed; but Mousqueton scours the countryside, and he brings back provisions. Mousqueton, my friend," continued Porthos, "you see that reinforcements have arrived; we shall need additional victuals."

"Mousqueton," said d'Artagnan, "you will have to do me a service."

"What service, monsieur?"

"To give your recipe to Planchet; I might find myself besieged in turn, and I would not be sorry to have him make me enjoy the same advantages with which you gratify your master."

"Eh, my God, monsieur," said Mousqueton with a modest air, "nothing easier. It's a matter of being clever, that's all. I was raised in the country, and my father, in his spare moments, was something of a poacher."

"And the rest of the time, what did he do?"

"Monsieur, he practiced a trade that I always found quite fortunate."

"What trade?"

"Since it was the time of the wars between Catholics and Huguenots, and since he saw the Catholics exterminating the Huguenots and the Huguenots exterminating the Catholics, all in the name of religion, he had made himself a mixed faith, which allowed him to be sometimes Catholic, sometimes Huguenot. Now, he would usually walk about, his blunderbuss on his shoulder, behind the hedges that lined the roads, and when he saw a Catholic coming alone, the Protestant faith would immediately prevail in his mind. He would lower his blunderbuss in the direction of the traveler; then, when he was ten paces from him, he would begin a dialogue that almost always ended with the traveler surrendering his purse to save his life. It goes without saying that when he saw a Huguenot coming, he would be seized with such ardent Catholic zeal that he could not understand how, a quarter of an hour earlier, he could have had any doubts about the superiority of our holy religion. For I, monsieur, am a Catholic; my father, faithful to his principles, had made my elder brother a Huguenot."

"And how did that worthy man end?" asked d'Artagnan.

"Oh, in the most unfortunate way, monsieur. One day, he found himself caught in a sunken lane between a Huguenot and a Catholic whom he had already dealt with, and they both recognized him; so they united against him and hanged him from a tree; then they came to boast of the fine exploit they had accomplished at the tavern of the first village, where my brother and I were drinking."

"And what did you do?" said d'Artagnan.

"We let them talk," resumed Mousqueton. "Then, since upon leaving that tavern they each took an opposite road, my brother went to lie in ambush on the Catholic's road, and I on the Protestant's. Two hours later, all was done; we had each taken care of his man, all the while admiring the foresight of our poor father, who had taken the precaution of raising each of us in a different religion."

"Indeed, as you say, Mousqueton, your father seems to me to have been a very clever fellow. And you say, then, that in his spare moments the good man was a poacher?"

"Yes, monsieur, and it was he who taught me to set a snare and to lay a bottom line. As a result, when I saw that our rascal of a host was feeding us a bunch of coarse meats fit for peasants, and which were not suitable for two stomachs as weakened as ours, I took up my old trade a little. While walking in the woods of Monseigneur le Prince, I set snares in the game trails; while lying down by the edge of His Highness's ponds, I slipped lines into the waters. So that now, thank God, we do not lack, as monsieur can attest, partridges and rabbits, carp and eels—all light and healthful foods, suitable for the sick."

"But the wine," said d'Artagnan, "who supplies the wine? Your host?"

"That is to say, yes and no."

"What, yes and no?"

"He supplies it, it is true, but he does not know that he has that honor."

"Explain yourself, Mousqueton; your conversation is full of instructive things."

"Here it is, monsieur. Chance had it that I met, in my wanderings, a Spaniard who had seen many countries, and among others the New World."

"What connection can the New World have with the bottles on that writing desk and that chest of drawers?"

"Patience, monsieur; everything will come in its turn."

"That is right, Mousqueton; I trust you, and I am listening."

"This Spaniard had in his service a lackey who had accompanied him on his journey to Mexico. This lackey was my compatriot, so that we became all the more quickly attached because there were great similarities in character between us. We both loved hunting above all else, so he told me how, on the pampas plains, the natives of the country hunt tigers and bulls with simple slipknots that they throw around the necks of those terrible animals. At first, I would not believe that one could attain such a degree of skill as to throw the end of a rope where one wanted at twenty or thirty paces; but faced with the proof, I had to recognize the truth of the story. My friend would place a bottle thirty paces away, and at every throw he would catch its neck in a slipknot. I applied myself to this exercise, and since nature has endowed me with some abilities, today I throw the lasso as well as any man in the world. Well, do you understand? Our host has a very well-stocked cellar, but the key never leaves him; only, this cellar has a grating. Now, through that grating, I throw the lasso; and since I now know where the good spot is, I draw from it. There you have it, monsieur, how the New World comes to be connected with the bottles on this chest of drawers and this writing desk. Now, would you like to taste our wine, and, without prejudice, tell us what you think of it?"

"Thank you, my friend, thank you; unfortunately, I have just breakfasted."

"Well then," said Porthos, "set the table, Mousqueton, and while we breakfast, my d'Artagnan will tell us what has become of him these ten days since he left us."

"Willingly," said d'Artagnan.

While Porthos and Mousqueton breakfasted with the appetites of convalescents and that cordiality of brothers which brings men together in misfortune, d'Artagnan recounted how Aramis, wounded, had been forced to stop at Crèvecoeur; how he had left Athos struggling at Amiens in the hands of four men who accused him of being a counterfeiter; and how he, d'Artagnan, had been forced to trample over the Comte de Wardes to reach England.

But there d'Artagnan's confidences ended; he only announced that on his return from Great Britain he had brought back four magnificent horses, one for himself and one for each of his companions, and then he concluded by telling Porthos that the one intended for him was already installed in the inn's stable.

At that moment Planchet entered; he informed his master that the horses were sufficiently rested and that it would be possible to go sleep at Clermont.

Since d'Artagnan was more or less reassured about Porthos and was eager for news of his other two friends, he extended his hand to the invalid and informed him that he was about to set out to continue his search. Besides, since he planned to return by the same road, if in seven or eight days Porthos was still at the Hôtel du Grand Saint Martin, he would pick him up on the way.

Porthos replied that in all likelihood his sprain would not allow him to leave by then. Moreover, he had to stay at Chantilly to await a reply from his duchess.

D'Artagnan wished him a prompt and favorable reply; and after commending Porthos once more to Mousqueton and paying his bill to the host, he set off again with Planchet, already relieved of one of his spare horses.

CHAPTER XXVI. ARAMIS'S THESIS

D'Artagnan had said nothing to Porthos about his wound or his procureuse. He was a very prudent lad, our Béarnais, young though he was. Consequently, he had pretended to believe everything the boastful musketeer had told him, convinced that no friendship can withstand a surprised secret, especially when that secret touches upon pride; moreover, one always has a certain moral superiority over those whose lives one knows.

Now d'Artagnan, in his plans for future intrigue, and determined as he was to make his three companions the instruments of his fortune, was not sorry to gather in advance in his hand the invisible threads with which he intended to lead them.

Nevertheless, throughout the journey, a profound sadness gripped his heart: he thought of that young and pretty Madame Bonacieux, who was to have given him the reward for his devotion; but, let us hasten to say, this sadness came less from the young man's regret for his lost happiness than from the fear he felt that some misfortune might befall that poor woman. For him, there was no doubt: she was the victim of a vengeance of the cardinal, and as everyone knew, His Eminence's vengeances were terrible. How he himself had found favor in the eyes of the minister, that he himself did not know, and no doubt Monsieur de Cavois would have revealed it to him had the captain of the guards found him at home.

Nothing makes time pass and shortens the road like a thought that absorbs all the faculties of the one who thinks. External existence then resembles a sleep of which that thought is the dream. By its influence, time has no measure, space has no distance. One leaves one place and arrives at another, that is all. Of the distance covered, nothing remains present to one's memory but a vague fog in which a thousand confused images of trees, mountains, and landscapes fade away. It was in the grip of this hallucination that d'Artagnan covered, at whatever pace his horse chose to take, the six or eight leagues separating Chantilly from Crèvecoeur, without, upon arriving at that village, remembering any of the things he had encountered on the road.

Only then did memory return; he shook his head and caught sight of the inn where he had left Aramis, and, putting his horse to a trot, he stopped at the door.

This time it was not a host but a hostess who received him; d'Artagnan was a physiognomist, he took in at a glance the fat, cheerful face of the mistress of the place, and understood that he need not dissemble with her and that he had nothing to fear from so merry a countenance.

"My good lady," asked d'Artagnan, "could you tell me what has become of a friend of mine, whom we were forced to leave here about a dozen days ago?"

"A handsome young man of twenty-three or twenty-four, gentle, amiable, well-made?"

"Moreover, wounded in the shoulder?"

"That's it!"

"Exactly."

"Well, monsieur, he is still here."

"Ah, by God, my dear lady," said d'Artagnan, dismounting and throwing his horse's bridle over Planchet's arm, "you give me back my life; where is that dear Aramis, that I may embrace him? For, I confess, I am eager to see him again."

"Pardon, monsieur, but I doubt he can receive you at this moment."

"Why is that? Is he with a woman?"

"Jesus! What are you saying? The poor boy! No, monsieur, he is not with a woman."

"Then with whom is he?"

"With the curate of Montdidier and the superior of the Jesuits of Amiens."

"My God!" cried d'Artagnan, "has the poor fellow taken a turn for the worse?"

"No, monsieur, on the contrary; but, following his illness, grace has touched him, and he has decided to enter the priesthood."

"That's right," said d'Artagnan, "I had forgotten that he was only a musketeer on an interim basis."

"Does monsieur still insist on seeing him?"

"More than ever."

"Well then, monsieur has only to take the staircase to the right in the courtyard, second floor, number five."

D'Artagnan rushed in the direction indicated and found one of those external staircases such as we still see today in the courtyards of old inns. But one did not reach the future abbé so easily; the approaches to Aramis's room were guarded no less than the Gardens of Armida; Bazin was stationed in the corridor and barred his passage with all the more intrepidity since, after many years of trial, Bazin finally saw himself near to attaining the result he had eternally aspired to.

Indeed, the dream of poor Bazin had always been to serve a churchman, and he impatiently awaited the moment, constantly glimpsed in the future, when Aramis would finally throw the cassock to the nettles and take up the soutane. The promise renewed each day by the young man that the moment could not be long in coming had alone kept him in the service of a musketeer, a service in which, he said, he could not fail to lose his soul.

Bazin was therefore at the height of joy. In all probability, this time his master would not go back on his word. The conjunction of physical pain and moral pain had produced the long-desired effect: Aramis, suffering in both body and soul, had at last fixed his eyes and his thoughts on religion, and he had regarded as a warning from Heaven the double accident that had befallen him—that is, the sudden disappearance of his mistress and his shoulder wound.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”