Twenty years after
easy on that score. I will, however, inform Monsieur d’Artagnan of your
arrival here.”
Comminges then led the count to a room on the ground floor of a
pavilion, at the end of the orangery. They passed through a courtyard
as they went, full of soldiers and courtiers. In the centre of this
court, in the form of a horseshoe, were the buildings occupied by
Mazarin, and at each wing the pavilion (or smaller building), where
D’Artagnan was confined, and that, level with the orangery, where Athos
was to be. From the ends of these two wings extended the park.
Athos, when he reached his appointed room, observed through the
gratings of his window, walls and roofs; and was told, on inquiry, by
Comminges, that he was looking on the back of the pavilion where
D’Artagnan was confined.
“Yes, ’tis too true,” said Comminges, “’tis almost a prison; but what a
singular fancy this is of yours, count—you, who are the very flower of
our nobility—to squander your valor and loyalty amongst these upstarts,
the Frondists! Really, count, if ever I thought that I had a friend in
the ranks of the royal army, it was you. A Frondeur! you, the Comte de
la Fère, on the side of Broussel, Blancmesnil and Viole! For shame!
you, a Frondeur!”
“On my word of honor,” said Athos, “one must be either a Mazarinist or
a Frondeur. For a long time I had these words whispered in my ears, and
I chose the latter; at any rate, it is a French word. And now, I am a
Frondeur—not of Broussel’s party, nor of Blancmesnil’s, nor am I with
Viole; but with the Duc de Beaufort, the Ducs de Bouillon and d’Elbeuf;
with princes, not with presidents, councillors and low-born lawyers.
Besides, what a charming outlook it would have been to serve the
cardinal! Look at that wall—without a single window—which tells you
fine things about Mazarin’s gratitude!”
“Yes,” replied De Comminges, “more especially if it could reveal how
Monsieur d’Artagnan for this last week has been anathematizing him.”
“Poor D’Artagnan’” said Athos, with the charming melancholy that was
one of the traits of his character, “so brave, so good, so terrible to
the enemies of those he loves. You have two unruly prisoners there,
sir.”
“Unruly,” Comminges smiled; “you wish to terrify me, I suppose. When he
came here, Monsieur D’Artagnan provoked and braved the soldiers and
inferior officers, in order, I suppose, to have his sword back. That
mood lasted some time; but now he’s as gentle as a lamb and sings
Gascon songs, which make one die of laughing.”
“And Du Vallon?” asked Athos.
“Ah, he’s quite another sort of person—a formidable gentleman, indeed.
The first day he broke all the doors in with a single push of his
shoulder; and I expected to see him leave Rueil in the same way as
Samson left Gaza. But his temper cooled down, like his friend’s; he not
only gets used to his captivity, but jokes about it.”
“So much the better,” said Athos.
“Do you think anything else was to be expected of them?” asked
Comminges, who, putting together what Mazarin had said of his prisoners
and what the Comte de la Fère had said, began to feel a degree of
uneasiness.
Athos, on the other hand, reflected that this recent gentleness of his
friends most certainly arose from some plan formed by D’Artagnan.
Unwilling to injure them by praising them too highly, he replied:
“They? They are two hotheads—the one a Gascon, the other from Picardy;
both are easily excited, but they quiet down immediately. You have had
a proof of that in what you have just related to me.”
This, too, was the opinion of Comminges, who withdrew somewhat
reassured. Athos remained alone in the vast chamber, where, according
to the cardinal’s directions, he was treated with all the courtesy due
to a nobleman. He awaited Mazarin’s promised visit to get some light on
his present situation.
Chapter LXXXIII.
Strength and Sagacity.
Now let us pass the orangery to the hunting lodge. At the extremity of
the courtyard, where, close to a portico formed of Ionic columns, were
the dog kennels, rose an oblong building, the pavilion of the orangery,
a half circle, inclosing the court of honor. It was in this pavilion,
on the ground floor, that D’Artagnan and Porthos were confined,
suffering interminable hours of imprisonment in a manner suitable to
each different temperament.
D’Artagnan was pacing to and fro like a caged tiger; with dilated eyes,
growling as he paced along by the bars of a window looking upon the
yard of servant’s offices.
Porthos was ruminating over an excellent dinner he had just demolished.
The one seemed to be deprived of reason, yet he was meditating. The
other seemed to meditate, yet he was more than half asleep. But his
sleep was a nightmare, which might be guessed by the incoherent manner
in which he sometimes snored and sometimes snorted.
“Look,” said D’Artagnan, “day is declining. It must be nearly four
o’clock. We have been in this place nearly eighty-three hours.”
“Hem!” muttered Porthos, with a kind of pretense of answering.
“Did you hear, eternal sleeper?” cried D’Artagnan, irritated that any
one could doze during the day, when he had the greatest difficulty in
sleeping during the night.
“What?” said Porthos.
“I say we have been here eighty-three hours.”
“’Tis your fault,” answered Porthos.
“How, my fault?”
“Yes, I offered you escape.”
“By pulling out a bar and pushing down a door?”
“Certainly.”
“Porthos, men like us can’t go out from here purely and simply.”
“Faith!” said Porthos, “as for me, I could go out with that purity and
that simplicity which it seems to me you despise too much.”
D’Artagnan shrugged his shoulders.
“And besides,” he said, “going out of this chamber isn’t all.”
“Dear friend,” said Porthos, “you appear to be in a somewhat better
humor to-day than you were yesterday. Explain to me why going out of
this chamber isn’t everything.”
“Because, having neither arms nor password, we shouldn’t take fifty
steps in the court without knocking against a sentinel.”
“Very well,” said Porthos, “we will kill the sentinel and we shall have
his arms.”
“Yes, but before we can kill him—and he will be hard to kill, that
Swiss—he will shriek out and the whole picket will come, and we shall
be taken like foxes, we, who are lions, and thrown into some dungeon,
where we shall not even have the consolation of seeing this frightful
gray sky of Rueil, which no more resembles the sky of Tarbes than the
moon is like the sun. Lack-a-day! if we only had some one to instruct
us about the physical and moral topography of this castle. Ah! when one
thinks that for twenty years, during which time I did not know what to
do with myself, it never occurred to me to come to study Rueil.”
“What difference does that make?” said Porthos. “We shall go out all
the same.”
“Do you know, my dear fellow, why master pastrycooks never work with
their hands?”
“No,” said Porthos, “but I should be glad to be informed.”
“It is because in the presence of their pupils they fear that some of
their tarts or creams may turn out badly cooked.”
“What then?”
“Why, then they would be laughed at, and a master pastrycook must never
be laughed at.”
“And what have master pastrycooks to do with us?”
“We ought, in our adventures, never to be defeated or give any one a
chance to laugh at us. In England, lately, we failed, we were beaten,
and that is a blemish on our reputation.”
“By whom, then, were we beaten?” asked Porthos.
“By Mordaunt.”
“Yes, but we have drowned Monsieur Mordaunt.”
“That is true, and that will redeem us a little in the eyes of
posterity, if posterity ever looks at us. But listen, Porthos: though
Monsieur Mordaunt was a man not to be despised, Mazarin is not less
strong than he, and we shall not easily succeed in drowning him. We
must, therefore, watch and play a close game; for,” he added with a
sigh, “we two are equal, perhaps, to eight others; but we are not equal
to the four that you know of.”
“That is true,” said Porthos, echoing D’Artagnan’s sigh.
“Well, Porthos, follow my examples; walk back and forth till some news
of our friends reaches us or till we are visited by a good idea. But
don’t sleep as you do all the time; nothing dulls the intellect like
sleep. As to what may lie before us, it is perhaps less serious than we
at first thought. I don’t believe that Monsieur de Mazarin thinks of
cutting off our heads, for heads are not taken off without previous
trial; a trial would make a noise, and a noise would get the attention
of our friends, who would check the operations of Monsieur de Mazarin.”
“How well you reason!” said Porthos, admiringly.
“Well, yes, pretty well,” replied D’Artagnan; “and besides, you see, if
they put us on trial, if they cut off our heads, they must meanwhile
either keep us here or transfer us elsewhere.”
“Yes, that is inevitable,” said Porthos.
“Well, it is impossible but that Master Aramis, that keen-scented
bloodhound, and Athos, that wise and prudent nobleman, will discover
our retreat. Then, believe me, it will be time to act.”
“Yes, we will wait. We can wait the more contentedly, that it is not
absolutely bad here, but for one thing, at least.”
“What is that?”
“Did you observe, D’Artagnan, that three days running they have brought
us braised mutton?”
“No; but if it occurs a fourth time I shall complain of it, so never
mind.”
“And then I feel the loss of my house, ’tis a long time since I visited
my castles.”
“Forget them for a time; we shall return to them, unless Mazarin razes
them to the ground.”
“Do you think that likely?”
“No; the _other_ cardinal would have done so, but this one is too mean
a fellow to risk it.”
“You reconcile me, D’Artagnan.”
“Well, then, assume a cheerful manner, as I do; we must joke with the
guards, we must gain the good-will of the soldiers, since we can’t
corrupt them. Try, Porthos, to please them more than you are wont to do
when they are under our windows. Thus far you have done nothing but
show them your fist; and the more respectable your fist is, Porthos,
the less attractive it is. Ah, I would give much to have five hundred
louis, only.”
“So would I,” said Porthos, unwilling to be behind D’Artagnan in
generosity; “I would give as much as a hundred pistoles.”
The two prisoners were at this point of their conversation when
Comminges entered, preceded by a sergeant and two men, who brought
supper in a basket with two handles, filled with basins and plates.
“What!” exclaimed Porthos, “mutton again?”
“My dear Monsieur de Comminges,” said D’Artagnan, “you will find that
my friend, Monsieur du Vallon, will go to the most fatal lengths if
Cardinal Mazarin continues to provide us with this sort of meat; mutton
every day.”
“I declare,” said Porthos, “I shall eat nothing if they do not take it
away.”
“Remove the mutton,” cried Comminges; “I wish Monsieur du Vallon to sup
well, more especially as I have news to give him that will improve his
appetite.”
“Is Mazarin dead?” asked Porthos.
“No; I am sorry to tell you he is perfectly well.”
“So much the worse,” said Porthos.
“What is that news?” asked D’Artagnan. “News in prison is a fruit so
rare that I trust, Monsieur de Comminges, you will excuse my
impatience—the more eager since you have given us to understand that
the news is good.”
“Should you be glad to hear that the Comte de la Fère is well?” asked
De Comminges.
D’Artagnan’s penetrating gray eyes were opened to the utmost.
“Glad!” he cried; “I should be more than glad! Happy—beyond measure!”
“Well, I am desired by him to give you his compliments and to say that
he is in good health.”
D’Artagnan almost leaped with joy. A quick glance conveyed his thought