Twenty years after
to Porthos: “If Athos knows where we are, if he opens communication
with us, before long Athos will act.”
Porthos was not very quick to understand the language of glances, but
now since the name of Athos had suggested to him the same idea, he
understood.
“Do you say,” asked the Gascon, timidly, “that the Comte de la Fère has
commissioned you to give his compliments to Monsieur du Vallon and
myself?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you have seen him?”
“Certainly I have.”
“Where? if I may ask without indiscretion.”
“Near here,” replied De Comminges, smiling; “so near that if the
windows which look on the orangery were not stopped up you could see
him from where you are.”
“He is wandering about the environs of the castle,” thought D’Artagnan.
Then he said aloud:
“You met him, I dare say, in the park—hunting, perhaps?”
“No; nearer, nearer still. Look, behind this wall,” said De Comminges,
knocking against the wall.
“Behind this wall? What is there, then, behind this wall? I was brought
here by night, so devil take me if I know where I am.”
“Well,” said Comminges, “suppose one thing.”
“I will suppose anything you please.”
“Suppose there were a window in this wall.”
“Well?”
“From that window you would see Monsieur de la Fère at his.”
“The count, then, is in the château?”
“Yes.”
“For what reason?”
“The same as yourself.”
“Athos—a prisoner?”
“You know well,” replied De Comminges, “that there are no prisoners at
Rueil, because there is no prison.”
“Don’t let us play upon words, sir. Athos has been arrested.”
“Yesterday, at Saint Germain, as he came out from the presence of the
queen.”
The arms of D’Artagnan fell powerless by his side. One might have
supposed him thunderstruck; a paleness ran like a cloud over his dark
skin, but disappeared immediately.
“A prisoner?” he reiterated.
“A prisoner,” repeated Porthos, quite dejected.
Suddenly D’Artagnan looked up and in his eyes there was a gleam which
scarcely even Porthos observed; but it died away and he appeared more
sorrowful than before.
“Come, come,” said Comminges, who, since D’Artagnan, on the day of
Broussel’s arrest, had saved him from the hands of the Parisians, had
entertained a real affection for him, “don’t be unhappy; I never
thought of bringing you bad news. Laugh at the chance which has brought
your friend near to you and Monsieur du Vallon, instead of being in the
depths of despair about it.”
But D’Artagnan was still in a desponding mood.
“And how did he look?” asked Porthos, who, perceiving that D’Artagnan
had allowed the conversation to drop, profited by it to put in a word
or two.
“Very well, indeed, sir,” replied Comminges; “at first, like you, he
seemed distressed; but when he heard that the cardinal was going to pay
him a visit this very evening——”
“Ah!” cried D’Artagnan, “the cardinal is about to visit the Comte de la
Fère?”
“Yes; and the count desired me to tell you that he should take
advantage of this visit to plead for you and for himself.”
“Ah! our dear count!” said D’Artagnan.
“A fine thing, indeed!” grunted Porthos. “A great favor! Zounds!
Monsieur the Comte de la Fère, whose family is allied to the
Montmorency and the Rohan, is easily the equal of Monsieur de Mazarin.”
“No matter,” said D’Artagnan, in his most wheedling tone. “On
reflection, my dear Du Vallon, it is a great honor for the Comte de la
Fère, and gives good reason to hope. In fact, it seems to me so great
an honor for a prisoner that I think Monsieur de Comminges must be
mistaken.”
“What? I am mistaken?”
“Monsieur de Mazarin will not come to visit the Comte de la Fère, but
the Comte de la Fère will be sent for to visit him.”
“No, no, no,” said Comminges, who made a point of having the facts
appear exactly as they were, “I clearly understood what the cardinal
said to me. He will come and visit the Comte de la Fère.”
D’Artagnan tried to gather from the expression of his eyes whether
Porthos understood the importance of that visit, but Porthos did not
even look toward him.
“It is, then, the cardinal’s custom to walk in his orangery?” asked
D’Artagnan.
“Every evening he shuts himself in there. That, it seems, is where he
meditates on state affairs.”
“In that case,” said D’Artagnan, “I begin to believe that Monsieur de
la Fère will receive the visit of his eminence; he will, of course,
have an escort.”
“Yes—two soldiers.”
“And will he talk thus of affairs in presence of two strangers?”
“The soldiers are Swiss, who understand only German. Besides, according
to all probability they will wait at the door.”
D’Artagnan made a violent effort over himself to keep his face from
being too expressive.
“Let the cardinal take care of going alone to visit the Comte de la
Fère,” said D’Artagnan; “for the count must be furious.”
Comminges began to laugh. “Oh, oh! why, really, one would say that you
four were anthropaphagi! The count is an affable man; besides, he is
unarmed; at the first word from his eminence the two soldiers about him
would run to his assistance.”
“Two soldiers,” said D’Artagnan, seeming to remember something, “two
soldiers, yes; that, then, is why I hear two men called every evening
and see them walking sometimes for half an hour, under my window.”
“That is it; they are waiting for the cardinal, or rather for Bernouin,
who comes to call them when the cardinal goes out.”
“Fine-looking men, upon my word!” said D’Artagnan.
“They belong to the regiment that was at Lens, which the prince
assigned to the cardinal.”
“Ah, monsieur,” said D’Artagnan, as if to sum up in a word all that
conversation, “if only his eminence would relent and grant to Monsieur
de la Fère our liberty.”
“I wish it with all my heart,” said Comminges.
“Then, if he should forget that visit, you would find no inconvenience
in reminding him of it?”
“Not at all.”
“Ah, that gives me more confidence.”
This skillful turn of the conversation would have seemed a sublime
manœuvre to any one who could have read the Gascon’s soul.
“Now,” said D’Artagnan, “I’ve one last favor to ask of you, Monsieur de
Comminges.”
“At your service, sir.”
“You will see the count again?”
“To-morrow morning.”
“Will you remember us to him and ask him to solicit for me the same
favor that he will have obtained?”
“You want the cardinal to come here?”
“No; I know my place and am not so presumptuous. Let his eminence do me
the honor to give me a hearing; that is all I want.”
“Oh!” muttered Porthos, shaking his head, “never should I have thought
this of _him!_ How misfortune humbles a man!”
“I promise you it shall be done,” answered De Comminges.
“Tell the count that I am well; that you found me sad, but resigned.”
“I am pleased, sir, to hear that.”
“And the same, also, for Monsieur du Vallon——”
“Not for me,” cried Porthos; “I am not by any means resigned.”
“But you will be resigned, my friend.”
“Never!”
“He will become so, monsieur; I know him better than he knows himself.
Be silent, dear Du Vallon, and resign yourself.”
“Adieu, gentlemen,” said De Comminges; “sleep well!”
“We will try.”
De Comminges went away, D’Artagnan remaining apparently in the same
attitude of humble resignation; but scarcely had he departed when he
turned and clasped Porthos in his arms with an expression not to be
doubted.
“Oh!” cried Porthos; “what’s the matter now? Have you gone mad, my dear
friend?”
“What is the matter?” returned D’Artagnan; “we are saved!”
“I don’t see that at all,” answered Porthos. “I think we are all taken
prisoners, except Aramis, and that our chances of getting out are
lessened since one more of us is caught in Mazarin’s mousetrap.”
“Which is far too strong for two of us, but not strong enough for three
of us,” returned D’Artagnan.
“I don’t understand,” said Porthos.
“Never mind; let’s sit down to table and take something to strengthen
us for the night.”
“What are we to do, then, to-night?”
“To travel—perhaps.”
“But——”
“Sit down, dear friend, to table. When one is eating, ideas flow
easily. After supper, when they are perfected, I will communicate my
plans to you.”
So Porthos sat down to table without another word and ate with an
appetite that did honor to the confidence that was ever inspired in him
by D’Artagnan’s inventive imagination.
Chapter LXXXIV.
Strength and Sagacity—Continued.
Supper was eaten in silence, but not in sadness; for from time to time
one of those sweet smiles which were habitual to him in moments of
good-humor illumined the face of D’Artagnan. Not a scintilla of these
was lost on Porthos; and at every one he uttered an exclamation which
betrayed to his friend that he had not lost sight of the idea which
possessed his brain.
At dessert D’Artagnan reposed in his chair, crossed one leg over the
other and lounged about like a man perfectly at his ease.
Porthos rested his chin on his hands, placed his elbows on the table
and looked at D’Artagnan with an expression of confidence which
imparted to that colossus an admirable appearance of good-fellowship.
“Well?” said D’Artagnan, at last.
“Well!” repeated Porthos.
“You were saying, my dear friend——”
“No; I said nothing.”
“Yes; you were saying you wished to leave this place.”
“Ah, indeed! the will was never wanting.”
“To get away you would not mind, you added, knocking down a door or a
wall.”
“’Tis true—I said so, and I say it again.”
“And I answered you, Porthos, that it was not a good plan; that we
couldn’t go a hundred steps without being recaptured, because we were
without clothes to disguise ourselves and arms to defend ourselves.”
“That is true; we should need clothes and arms.”
“Well,” said D’Artagnan, rising, “we have them, friend Porthos, and
even something better.”
“Bah!” said Porthos, looking around.
“Useless to look; everything will come to us when wanted. At about what
time did we see the two Swiss guards walking yesterday?”
“An hour after sunset.”
“If they go out to-day as they did yesterday we shall have the honor,
then, of seeing them in half an hour?”
“In a quarter of an hour at most.”
“Your arm is still strong enough, is it not, Porthos?”
Porthos unbuttoned his sleeve, raised his shirt and looked complacently
on his strong arm, as large as the leg of any ordinary man.
“Yes, indeed,” said he, “I believe so.”
“So that you could without trouble convert these tongs into a hoop and
yonder shovel into a corkscrew?”
“Certainly.” And the giant took up these two articles, and without any
apparent effort produced in them the metamorphoses suggested by his
companion.
“There!” he cried.
“Capital!” exclaimed the Gascon. “Really, Porthos, you are a gifted
individual!”
“I have heard speak,” said Porthos, “of a certain Milo of Crotona, who
performed wonderful feats, such as binding his forehead with a cord and
bursting it—of killing an ox with a blow of his fist and carrying it
home on his shoulders, _et cetera_. I used to learn all these feat by
heart yonder, down at Pierrefonds, and I have done all that he did
except breaking a cord by the corrugation of my temples.”
“Because your strength is not in your head, Porthos,” said his friend.
“No; it is in my arms and shoulders,” answered Porthos with gratified
_naïveté_.
“Well, my dear friend, let us approach the window and there you can
match your strength against that of an iron bar.”
Porthos went to the window, took a bar in his hands, clung to it and
bent it like a bow; so that the two ends came out of the sockets of
stone in which for thirty years they had been fixed.
“Well! friend, the cardinal, although such a genius, could never have
done that.”
“Shall I take out any more of them?” asked Porthos.