Twenty years after
happy man, my friend since you have not only retained your love of the
chase, but acquired that of fishing.”
“My friend,” replied Porthos, “I leave fishing to Mousqueton,—it is a
vulgar pleasure,—but I shoot sometimes; that is to say, when I am dull,
and I sit on one of those marble seats, have my gun brought to me, my
favorite dog, and I shoot rabbits.”
“Really, how very amusing!”
“Yes,” replied Porthos, with a sigh, “it _is_ amusing.”
D’Artagnan now no longer counted the sighs. They were innumerable.
“However, what had you to say to me?” he resumed; “let us return to
that subject.”
“With pleasure,” replied D’Artagnan; “I must, however, first frankly
tell you that you must change your mode of life.”
“How?”
“Go into harness again, gird on your sword, run after adventures, and
leave as in old times a little of your fat on the roadside.”
“Ah! hang it!” said Porthos.
“I see you are spoiled, dear friend; you are corpulent, your arm has no
longer that movement of which the late cardinal’s guards have so many
proofs.”
“Ah! my fist is strong enough I swear,” cried Porthos, extending a hand
like a shoulder of mutton.
“So much the better.”
“Are we then to go to war?”
“By my troth, yes.”
“Against whom?”
“Are you a politician, friend?”
“Not in the least.”
“Are you for Mazarin or for the princes?”
“I am for no one.”
“That is to say, you are for us. Well, I tell you that I come to you
from the cardinal.”
This speech was heard by Porthos in the same sense as if it had still
been in the year 1640 and related to the true cardinal.
“Ho! ho! What are the wishes of his eminence?”
“He wishes to have you in his service.”
“And who spoke to him of me?”
“Rochefort—you remember him?”
“Yes, _pardieu!_ It was he who gave us so much trouble and kept us on
the road so much; you gave him three sword-wounds in three separate
engagements.”
“But you know he is now our friend?”
“No, I didn’t know that. So he cherishes no resentment?”
“You are mistaken, Porthos,” said D’Artagnan. “It is I who cherish no
resentment.”
Porthos didn’t understand any too clearly; but then we know that
understanding was not his strong point. “You say, then,” he continued,
“that the Count de Rochefort spoke of me to the cardinal?”
“Yes, and the queen, too.”
“The queen, do you say?”
“To inspire us with confidence she has even placed in Mazarin’s hands
that famous diamond—you remember all about it—that I once sold to
Monsieur des Essarts and of which, I don’t know how, she has regained
possession.”
“But it seems to me,” said Porthos, “that she would have done much
better if she had given it back to you.”
“So I think,” replied D’Artagnan; “but kings and queens are strange
beings and have odd fancies; nevertheless, since they are the ones who
have riches and honors, we are devoted to them.”
“Yes, we are devoted to them,” repeated Porthos; “and you—to whom are
you devoted now?”
“To the king, the queen, and to the cardinal; moreover, I have answered
for your devotion also.”
“And you say that you have made certain conditions on my behalf?”
“Magnificent, my dear fellow, magnificent! In the first place you have
plenty of money, haven’t you? forty thousand francs income, I think you
said.”
Porthos began to be suspicious. “Eh! my friend,” said he, “one never
has too much money. Madame du Vallon left things in much disorder; I am
not much of a hand at figures, so that I live almost from hand to
mouth.”
“He is afraid I have come to borrow money,” thought D’Artagnan. “Ah, my
friend,” said he, “it is all the better if you are in difficulties.”
“How is it all the better?”
“Yes, for his eminence will give you all that you want—land, money, and
titles.”
“Ah! ah! ah!” said Porthos, opening his eyes at that last word.
“Under the other cardinal,” continued D’Artagnan, “we didn’t know
enough to make our profits; this, however, doesn’t concern you, with
your forty thousand francs income, the happiest man in the world, it
seems to me.”
Porthos sighed.
“At the same time,” continued D’Artagnan, “notwithstanding your forty
thousand francs a year, and perhaps even for the very reason that you
have forty thousand francs a year, it seems to me that a little coronet
would do well on your carriage, hey?”
“Yes indeed,” said Porthos.
“Well, my dear friend, win it—it is at the point of your sword. We
shall not interfere with each other—your object is a title; mine,
money. If I can get enough to rebuild Artagnan, which my ancestors,
impoverished by the Crusades, allowed to fall into ruins, and to buy
thirty acres of land about it, that is all I wish. I shall retire and
die tranquilly—at home.”
“For my part,” said Porthos, “I desire to be made a baron.”
“You shall be one.”
“And have you not seen any of our other friends?”
“Yes, I have seen Aramis.”
“And what does he wish? To be a bishop?”
“Aramis,” answered D’Artagnan, who did not wish to undeceive Porthos,
“Aramis, fancy, has become a monk and a Jesuit, and lives like a bear.
My offers did not arouse him,—did not even tempt him.”
“So much the worse! He was a clever man. And Athos?”
“I have not yet seen him. Do you know where I shall find him?”
“Near Blois. He is called Bragelonne. Only imagine, my dear friend.
Athos, who was of as high birth as the emperor and who inherits one
estate which gives him the title of comte, what is he to do with all
those dignities—the Comte de la Fère, Comte de Bragelonne?”
“And he has no children with all these titles?”
“Ah!” said Porthos, “I have heard that he had adopted a young man who
resembles him greatly.”
“What, Athos? Our Athos, who was as virtuous as Scipio? Have you seen
him?
“No.”
“Well, I shall see him to-morrow and tell him about you; but I’m
afraid, _entre nous_, that his liking for wine has aged and degraded
him.”
“Yes, he used to drink a great deal,” replied Porthos.
“And then he was older than any of us,” added D’Artagnan.
“Some years only. His gravity made him look older than he was.”
“Well then, if we can get Athos, all will be well. If we cannot, we
will do without him. We two are worth a dozen.”
“Yes,” said Porthos, smiling at the remembrance of his former exploits;
“but we four, altogether, would be equal to thirty-six, more especially
as you say the work will not be child’s play. Will it last long?”
“By’r Lady! two or three years perhaps.”
“So much the better,” cried Porthos. “You have no idea, my friend, how
my bones ache since I came here. Sometimes on a Sunday, I take a ride
in the fields and on the property of my neighbours, in order to pick up
a nice little quarrel, which I am really in want of, but nothing
happens. Either they respect or they fear me, which is more likely, but
they let me trample down the clover with my dogs, insult and obstruct
every one, and I come back still more weary and low-spirited, that’s
all. At any rate, tell me: there’s more chance of fighting in Paris, is
there not?”
“In that respect, my dear friend, it’s delightful. No more edicts, no
more of the cardinal’s guards, no more De Jussacs, nor other
bloodhounds. I’Gad! underneath a lamp in an inn, anywhere, they ask
‘Are you one of the Fronde?’ They unsheathe, and that’s all that is
said. The Duke de Guise killed Monsieur de Coligny in the Place Royale
and nothing was said of it.”
“Ah, things go on gaily, then,” said Porthos.
“Besides which, in a short time,” resumed D’Artagnan, “We shall have
set battles, cannonades, conflagrations and there will be great
variety.”
“Well, then, I decide.”
“I have your word, then?”
“Yes, ’tis given. I shall fight heart and soul for Mazarin; but——”
“But?”
“But he must make me a baron.”
“Zounds!” said D’Artagnan, “that’s settled already; I will be
responsible for the barony.”
On this promise being given, Porthos, who had never doubted his
friend’s assurance, turned back with him toward the castle.
Chapter XII.
Porthos was Discontented with his Condition.
As they returned toward the castle, D’Artagnan thought of the miseries
of poor human nature, always dissatisfied with what it has, ever
desirous of what it has not.
In the position of Porthos, D’Artagnan would have been perfectly happy;
and to make Porthos contented there was wanting—what? five letters to
put before his three names, a tiny coronet to paint upon the panels of
his carriage!
“I shall pass all my life,” thought D’Artagnan, “in seeking for a man
who is really contented with his lot.”
Whilst making this reflection, chance seemed, as it were, to give him
the lie direct. When Porthos had left him to give some orders he saw
Mousqueton approaching. The face of the steward, despite one slight
shade of care, light as a summer cloud, seemed a physiognomy of
absolute felicity.
“Here is what I am looking for,” thought D’Artagnan; “but alas! the
poor fellow does not know the purpose for which I am here.”
He then made a sign for Mousqueton to come to him.
“Sir,” said the servant, “I have a favour to ask you.”
“Speak out, my friend.”
“I am afraid to do so. Perhaps you will think, sir, that prosperity has
spoiled me?”
“Art thou happy, friend?” asked D’Artagnan.
“As happy as possible; and yet, sir, you may make me even happier than
I am.”
“Well, speak, if it depends on me.”
“Oh, sir! it depends on you only.”
“I listen—I am waiting to hear.”
“Sir, the favor I have to ask of you is, not to call me ‘Mousqueton’
but ‘Mouston.’ Since I have had the honor of being my lord’s steward I
have taken the last name as more dignified and calculated to make my
inferiors respect me. You, sir, know how necessary subordination is in
any large establishment of servants.”
D’Artagnan smiled; Porthos wanted to lengthen out his names, Mousqueton
to cut his short.
“Well, my dear Mouston,” he said, “rest satisfied. I will call thee
Mouston; and if it makes thee happy I will not ‘tutoyer’ you any
longer.”
“Oh!” cried Mousqueton, reddening with joy; “if you do me, sir, such
honor, I shall be grateful all my life; it is too much to ask.”
“Alas!” thought D’Artagnan, “it is very little to offset the unexpected
tribulations I am bringing to this poor devil who has so warmly
welcomed me.”
“Will monsieur remain long with us?” asked Mousqueton, with a serene
and glowing countenance.
“I go to-morrow, my friend,” replied D’Artagnan.
“Ah, monsieur,” said Mousqueton, “then you have come here only to
awaken our regrets.”
“I fear that is true,” said D’Artagnan, in a low tone.
D’Artagnan was secretly touched with remorse, not at inducing Porthos
to enter into schemes in which his life and fortune would be in
jeopardy, for Porthos, in the title of baron, had his object and
reward; but poor Mousqueton, whose only wish was to be called
Mouston—was it not cruel to snatch him from the delightful state of
peace and plenty in which he was?
He was thinking of these matters when Porthos summoned him to dinner.
“What! to dinner?” said D’Artagnan. “What time is it, then?”
“Eh! why, it is after one o’clock.”
“Your home is a paradise, Porthos; one takes no note of time. I follow
you, though I am not hungry.”
“Come, if one can’t always eat, one can always drink—a maxim of poor
Athos, the truth of which I have discovered since I began to be
lonely.”
D’Artagnan, who as a Gascon, was inclined to sobriety, seemed not so
sure as his friend of the truth of Athos’s maxim, but he did his best
to keep up with his host. Meanwhile his misgivings in regard to
Mousqueton recurred to his mind and with greater force because
Mousqueton, though he did not himself wait on the table, which would
have been beneath him in his new position, appeared at the door from