Twenty years after
nobleman, dressed in green and with as much gilding about him as the
iron gate, riding on a tall horse. On his right hand and his left were
two footmen, with the seams of their dresses laced. A considerable
number of clowns were assembled and rendered homage to their lord.
“Ah!” said D’Artagnan to himself, “can this be the Seigneur du Vallon
de Bracieux de Pierrefonds? Well-a-day! how he has shrunk since he gave
up the name of Porthos!”
“This cannot be Monsieur Porthos,” observed Planchet replying, as it
were, to his master’s thoughts. “Monsieur Porthos was six feet high;
this man is scarcely five.”
“Nevertheless,” said D’Artagnan, “the people are bowing very low to
this person.”
As he spoke, he rode toward the tall horse—to the man of importance and
his valets. As he approached he seemed to recognize the features of
this individual.
“Jesu!” cried Planchet, “can it be?”
At this exclamation the man on horseback turned slowly and with a lofty
air, and the two travelers could see, displayed in all their
brilliancy, the large eyes, the vermilion visage, and the eloquent
smile of—Mousqueton.
It was indeed Mousqueton—Mousqueton, as fat as a pig, rolling about
with rude health, puffed out with good living, who, recognizing
D’Artagnan and acting very differently from the hypocrite Bazin,
slipped off his horse and approached the officer with his hat off, so
that the homage of the assembled crowd was turned toward this new sun,
which eclipsed the former luminary.
“Monsieur d’Artagnan! Monsieur d’Artagnan!” cried Mousqueton, his fat
cheeks swelling out and his whole frame perspiring with joy; “Monsieur
d’Artagnan! oh! what joy for my lord and master, Du Vallon de Bracieux
de Pierrefonds!”
“Thou good Mousqueton! _where_ is thy master?”
“You stand upon his property!”
“But how handsome thou art—how fat! thou hast prospered and grown
stout!” and D’Artagnan could not restrain his astonishment at the
change good fortune had produced on the once famished one.
“Hey, yes, thank God, I am pretty well,” said Mousqueton.
“But hast thou nothing to say to thy friend Planchet?”
“How, my friend Planchet? Planchet—art thou there?” cried Mousqueton,
with open arms and eyes full of tears.
“My very self,” replied Planchet; “but I wanted first to see if thou
wert grown proud.”
“Proud toward an old friend? never, Planchet! thou wouldst not have
thought so hadst thou known Mousqueton well.”
“So far so well,” answered Planchet, alighting, and extending his arms
to Mousqueton, the two servants embraced with an emotion which touched
those who were present and made them suppose that Planchet was a great
lord in disguise, so highly did they estimate the position of
Mousqueton.
“And now, sir,” resumed Mousqueton, when he had rid himself of
Planchet, who had in vain tried to clasp his hands behind his friend’s
fat back, “now, sir, allow me to leave you, for I could not permit my
master to hear of your arrival from any but myself; he would never
forgive me for not having preceded you.”
“This dear friend,” said D’Artagnan, carefully avoiding to utter either
the former name borne by Porthos or his new one, “then he has not
forgotten me?”
“Forgotten—he!” cried Mousqueton; “there’s not a day, sir, that we
don’t expect to hear that you were made marshal either instead of
Monsieur de Gassion, or of Monsieur de Bassompierre.”
On D’Artagnan’s lips there played one of those rare and melancholy
smiles which seemed to emanate from the depth of his soul—the last
trace of youth and happiness that had survived life’s disillusions.
“And you—fellows,” resumed Mousqueton, “stay near Monsieur le Comte
d’Artagnan and pay him every attention in your power whilst I go to
prepare my lord for his visit.”
And mounting his horse Mousqueton rode off down the avenue on the grass
at a hand gallop.
“Ah, there! there’s something promising,” said D’Artagnan. “No
mysteries, no cloak to hide one’s self in, no cunning policy here;
people laugh outright, they weep for joy here. I see nothing but faces
a yard broad; in short, it seems to me that nature herself wears a
holiday garb, and that the trees, instead of leaves and flowers, are
covered with red and green ribbons as on gala days.”
“As for me,” said Planchet, “I seem to smell, from this place, even, a
most delectable perfume of fine roast meat, and to see the scullions in
a row by the hedge, hailing our approach. Ah! sir, what a cook must
Monsieur Pierrefonds have, when he was so fond of eating and drinking,
even whilst he was only called Monsieur Porthos!”
“Say no more!” cried D’Artagnan. “If the reality corresponds with
appearances I am lost; for a man so well off will never change his
happy condition, and I shall fail with him, as I have already done with
Aramis.”
Chapter XI.
Wealth does not necessarily produce Happiness.
D’Artagnan passed through the iron gate and arrived in front of the
château. He alighted as he saw a species of giant on the steps. Let us
do justice to D’Artagnan. Independently of every selfish wish, his
heart palpitated with joy when he saw that tall form and martial
demeanor, which recalled to him a good and brave man.
He ran to Porthos and threw himself into his arms; the whole body of
servants, arranged in a semi-circle at a respectful distance, looked on
with humble curiosity. Mousqueton, at the head of them, wiped his eyes.
Porthos linked his arm in that of his friend.
“Ah! how delightful to see you again, dear friend!” he cried, in a
voice which was now changed from a baritone into a bass, “you’ve not
then forgotten me?”
“Forget you! oh! dear Du Vallon, does one forget the happiest days of
flowery youth, one’s dearest friends, the dangers we have dared
together? On the contrary, there is not an hour we have passed together
that is not present to my memory.”
“Yes, yes,” said Porthos, trying to give to his mustache a curl which
it had lost whilst he had been alone. “Yes, we did some fine things in
our time and we gave that poor cardinal a few threads to unravel.”
And he heaved a sigh.
“Under any circumstances,” he resumed, “you are welcome, my dear
friend; you will help me to recover my spirits; to-morrow we will hunt
the hare on my plain, which is a superb tract of land, or pursue the
deer in my woods, which are magnificent. I have four harriers which are
considered the swiftest in the county, and a pack of hounds which are
unequalled for twenty leagues around.”
And Porthos heaved another sigh.
“But, first,” interposed D’Artagnan, “you must present me to Madame du
Vallon.”
A third sigh from Porthos.
“I lost Madame du Vallon two years ago,” he said, “and you find me
still in affliction on that account. That was the reason why I left my
Château du Vallon near Corbeil, and came to my estate, Bracieux. Poor
Madame du Vallon! her temper was uncertain, but she came at last to
accustom herself to my little ways and understand my little wishes.”
“So you are free now, and rich?”
“Alas!” groaned Porthos, “I am a widower and have forty thousand francs
a year. Let us go to breakfast.”
“I shall be happy to do so; the morning air has made me hungry.”
“Yes,” said Porthos; “my air is excellent.”
They went into the château; there was nothing but gilding, high and
low; the cornices were gilt, the mouldings were gilt, the legs and arms
of the chairs were gilt. A table, ready set out, awaited them.
“You see,” said Porthos, “this is my usual style.”
“Devil take me!” answered D’Artagnan, “I wish you joy of it. The king
has nothing like it.”
“No,” answered Porthos, “I hear it said that he is very badly fed by
the cardinal, Monsieur de Mazarin. Taste this cutlet, my dear
D’Artagnan; ’tis off one of my sheep.”
“You have very tender mutton and I wish you joy of it.” said
D’Artagnan.
“Yes, the sheep are fed in my meadows, which are excellent pasture.”
“Give me another cutlet.”
“No, try this hare, which I had killed yesterday in one of my warrens.”
“Zounds! what a flavor!” cried D’Artagnan; “ah! they are fed on thyme
only, your hares.”
“And how do you like my wine?” asked Porthos; “it is pleasant, isn’t
it?”
“Capital!”
“It is nothing, however, but a wine of the country.”
“Really?”
“Yes, a small declivity to the south, yonder on my hill, gives me
twenty hogsheads.”
“Quite a vineyard, hey?”
Porthos sighed for the fifth time—D’Artagnan had counted his sighs. He
became curious to solve the problem.
“Well now,” he said, “it seems, my dear friend, that something vexes
you; you are ill, perhaps? That health, which——”
“Excellent, my dear friend; better than ever. I could kill an ox with a
blow of my fist.”
“Well, then, family affairs, perhaps?”
“Family! I have, happily, only myself in the world to care for.”
“But what makes you sigh?”
“My dear fellow,” replied Porthos, “to be candid with you, I am not
happy.”
“You are not happy, Porthos? You who have château, meadows, mountains,
woods—you who have forty thousand francs a year—_you—are—not—happy?_”
“My dear friend, all those things I have, but I am a hermit in the
midst of superfluity.”
“Surrounded, I suppose, only by clodhoppers, with whom you could not
associate.”
Porthos turned rather pale and drank off a large glass of wine.
“No; but just think, there are paltry country squires who have all some
title or another and pretend to go back as far as Charlemagne, or at
least to Hugh Capet. When I first came here; being the last comer, it
was for me to make the first advances. I made them, but you know, my
dear friend, Madame du Vallon——”
Porthos, in pronouncing these words, seemed to gulp down something.
“Madame du Vallon was of doubtful gentility. She had, in her first
marriage—I don’t think, D’Artagnan, I am telling you anything
new—married a lawyer; they thought that ‘nauseous;’ you can understand
that’s a word bad enough to make one kill thirty thousand men. I _have_
killed two, which has made people hold their tongues, but has not made
me their friend. So that I have no society; I live alone; I am sick of
it—my mind preys on itself.”
D’Artagnan smiled. He now saw where the breastplate was weak, and
prepared the blow.
“But now,” he said, “that you are a widower, your wife’s connection
cannot injure you.”
“Yes, but understand me; not being of a race of historic fame, like the
De Courcys, who were content to be plain sirs, or the Rohans, who
didn’t wish to be dukes, all these people, who are all either vicomtes
or comtes go before me at church in all the ceremonies, and I can say
nothing to them. Ah! If I only were a——”
“A baron, don’t you mean?” cried D’Artagnan, finishing his friend’s
sentence.
“Ah!” cried Porthos; “would I were but a baron!”
“Well, my friend, I am come to give you this very title which you wish
for so much.”
Porthos gave a start that shook the room; two or three bottles fell and
were broken. Mousqueton ran thither, hearing the noise.
Porthos waved his hand to Mousqueton to pick up the bottles.
“I am glad to see,” said D’Artagnan, “that you have still that honest
lad with you.”
“He is my steward,” replied Porthos; “he will never leave me. Go away
now, Mouston.”
“So he’s called Mouston,” thought D’Artagnan; “’tis too long a word to
pronounce ‘Mousqueton.’”
“Well,” he said aloud, “let us resume our conversation later, your
people may suspect something; there may be spies about. You can
suppose, Porthos, that what I have to say relates to most important
matters.”
“Devil take them; let us walk in the park,” answered Porthos, “for the
sake of digestion.”
“Egad,” said D’Artagnan, “the park is like everything else and there
are as many fish in your pond as rabbits in your warren; you are a