You, sir, know how necessary subordination is in any large
establishment of servants."
D'Artagnan smiled; Porthos wanted to lengthen out his names,
Musqueton 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 Musqueton, 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 Musqueton, with a
serene and glowing countenance.
"I go to-morrow, my friend," replied D'Artagnan.
"Ah, monsieur," said Musqueton, "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 Musqueton, 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 Musqueton recurred to
his mind and with greater force because Musqueton, though he
did not himself wait on the table, which would have been
beneath him in his new position, appeared at the door from
time to time and evinced his gratitude to D'Artagnan by the
quality of the wine he directed to be served. Therefore,
when, at dessert, upon a sign from D'Artagnan, Porthos had
sent away his servants and the two friends were alone:
"Porthos," said D'Artagnan, "who will attend you in your
campaigns?"
"Why," replied Porthos, "Mouston, of course."
This was a blow to D'Artagnan. He could already see the
intendant's beaming smile change to a contortion of grief.
"But," he said, "Mouston is not so young as he was, my dear
fellow; besides, he has grown fat and perhaps has lost his
fitness for active service."
"That may be true," replied Porthos; "but I am used to him,
and besides, he wouldn't be willing to let me go without
him, he loves me so much."
"Oh, blind self-love!" thought D'Artagnan.
"And you," asked Porthos, "haven't you still in your service
your old lackey, that good, that brave, that intelligent
---what, then, is his name?"
"Planchet -- yes, I have found him again, but he is lackey
no longer."
"What is he, then?"
"With his sixteen hundred francs -- you remember, the
sixteen hundred francs he earned at the siege of La Rochelle
by carrying a letter to Lord de Winter -- he has set up a
little shop in the Rue des Lombards and is now a
confectioner."
"Ah, he is a confectioner in the Rue des Lombards! How does
it happen, then, that he is in your service?"
"He has been guilty of certain escapades and fears he may be
disturbed." And the musketeer narrated to his friend
Planchet's adventure.
"Well," said Porthos, "if any one had told you in the old
times that the day would come when Planchet would rescue
Rochefort and that you would protect him in it ---- "
"I should not have believed him; but men are changed by
events."
"There is nothing truer than that," said Porthos; "but what
does not change, or changes for the better, is wine. Taste
of this; it is a Spanish wine which our friend Athos thought
much of."
At that moment the steward came in to consult his master
upon the proceedings of the next day and also with regard to
the shooting party which had been proposed.
"Tell me, Mouston," said Porthos, "are my arms in good
condition?"
"Your arms, my lord -- what arms?"
"Zounds! my weapons."
"What weapons?"
"My military weapons."
"Yes, my lord; at any rate, I think so."
"Make sure of it, and if they want it, have them burnished
up. Which is my best cavalry horse?"
"Vulcan."
"And the best hack?"
"Bayard."
"What horse dost thou choose for thyself?"
"I like Rustaud, my lord; a good animal, whose paces suit
me."
"Strong, think's" thou?"
"Half Norman, half Mecklenburger; will go night and day."
"That will do for us. See to these horses. Polish up or make
some one else polish my arms. Then take pistols with thee
and a hunting-knife."
"Are we then going to travel, my lord?" asked Musqueton,
rather uneasy.
"Something better still, Mouston."
"An expedition, sir?" asked the steward, whose roses began
to change into lilies.
"We are going to return to the service, Mouston," replied
Porthos, still trying to restore his mustache to the
military curl it had long lost.
"Into the service -- the king's service?" Musqueton
trembled; even his fat, smooth cheeks shook as he spoke, and
he looked at D'Artagnan with an air of reproach; he
staggered, and his voice was almost choked.
"Yes and no. We shall serve in a campaign, seek out all
sorts of adventures -- return, in short, to our former
life."
These last words fell on Musqueton like a thunderbolt. It
was those very terrible old days that made the present so
excessively delightful, and the blow was so great he rushed
out, overcome, and forgot to shut the door.
The two friends remained alone to speak of the future and to
build castles in the air. The good wine which Musqueton had
placed before them traced out in glowing drops to D'Artagnan
a fine perspective, shining with quadruples and pistoles,
and showed to Porthos a blue ribbon and a ducal mantle; they
were, in fact, asleep on the table when the servants came to
light them to their bed.
Musqueton was, however, somewhat consoled by D'Artagnan, who
the next day told him that in all probability war would
always be carried on in the heart of Paris and within reach
of the Chateau du Vallon, which was near Corbeil, or
Bracieux, which was near Melun, and of Pierrefonds, which
was between Compiegne and Villars-Cotterets.
"But -- formerly -- it appears," began Musqueton timidly.
"Oh!" said D'Artagnan, "we don't now make war as we did
formerly. To-day it's a sort of diplomatic arrangement; ask
Planchet."
Musqueton inquired, therefore, the state of the case of his
old friend, who confirmed the statement of D'Artagnan.
"But," he added, "in this war prisoners stand a chance of
being hung."
"The deuce they do!" said Musqueton; "I think I should like
the siege of Rochelle better than this war, then!"
Porthos, meantime, asked D'Artagnan to give him his
instructions how to proceed on his journey.
"Four days," replied his friend, "are necessary to reach
Blois; one day to rest there; three or four days to return
to Paris. Set out, therefore, in a week, with your suite,
and go to the Hotel de la Chevrette, Rue Tiquetonne, and
there await me."
"That's agreed," said Porthos.
"As to myself, I shall go around to see Athos; for though I
don't think his aid worth much, one must with one's friends
observe all due politeness," said D'Artagnan.
The friends then took leave of each other on the very border
of the estate of Pierrefonds, to which Porthos escorted his
friend.
"At least," D'Artagnan said to himself, as he took the road
to Villars-Cotterets, "at least I shall not be alone in my
undertaking. That devil, Porthos, is a man of prodigious
strength; still, if Athos joins us, well, we shall be three
of us to laugh at Aramis, that little coxcomb with his too
good luck."
At Villars-Cotterets he wrote to the cardinal:
"My Lord, -- I have already one man to offer to your
eminence, and he is well worth twenty men. I am just setting
out for Blois. The Comte de la Fere inhabits the Castle of
Bragelonne, in the environs of that city."
13
Two Angelic Faces.
The road was long, but the horses upon which D'Artagnan and
Planchet rode had been refreshed in the well supplied
stables of the Lord of Bracieux; the master and servant rode
side by side, conversing as they went, for D'Artagnan had by
degrees thrown off the master and Planchet had entirely
ceased to assume the manners of a servant. He had been
raised by circumstances to the rank of a confidant to his
master. It was many years since D'Artagnan had opened his
heart to any one; it happened, however, that these two men,
on meeting again, assimilated perfectly. Planchet was in
truth no vulgar companion in these new adventures; he was a
man of uncommonly sound sense. Without courting danger he
never shrank from an encounter; in short, he had been a
soldier and arms ennoble a man; it was, therefore, on the
footing of friends that D'Artagnan and Planchet arrived in
the neighborhood of Blois.
Going along, D'Artagnan, shaking his head, said:
"I know that my going to Athos is useless and absurd; but
still I owe this courtesy to my old friend, a man who had in
him material for the most noble and generous of characters."
"Oh, Monsieur Athos was a noble gentleman," said Planchet,
"was he not? Scattering money round about him as Heaven
sprinkles rain. Do you remember, sir, that duel with the
Englishman in the inclosure des Carmes? Ah! how lofty, how
magnificent Monsieur Athos was that day, when he said to his
adversary: `You have insisted on knowing my name, sir; so
much the worse for you, since I shall be obliged to kill
you.' I was near him, those were his exact words, when he
stabbed his foe as he said he would, and his adversary fell
without saying, `Oh!' 'Tis a noble gentleman -- Monsieur
Athos."
"Yes, true as Gospel," said D'Artagnan; "but one single
fault has swallowed up all these fine qualities."
"I remember well," said Planchet, "he was fond of drinking
-- in truth, he drank, but not as other men drink. One
seemed, as he raised the wine to his lips, to hear him say,
`Come, juice of the grape, and chase away my sorrows.' And
how he used to break the stem of a glass or the neck of a
bottle! There was no one like him for that."
"And now," replied D'Artagnan, "behold the sad spectacle
that awaits us. This noble gentleman with his lofty glance,
this handsome cavalier, so brilliant in feats of arms that
every one was surprised that he held in his hand a sword
only instead of a baton of command! Alas! we shall find him
changed into a broken down old man, with garnet nose and
eyes that slobber; we shall find him extended on some lawn,
whence he will look at us with a languid eye and
peradventure will not recognize us. God knows, Planchet,
that I should fly from a sight so sad if I did not wish to
show my respect for the illustrious shadow of what was once
the Comte de la Fere, whom we loved so much."
Planchet shook his head and said nothing. It was evident
that he shared his master's apprehensions.
"And then," resumed D'Artagnan, "to this decrepitude is
probably added poverty, for he must have neglected the
little that he had, and the dirty scoundrel, Grimaud, more
taciturn than ever and still more drunken than his master --
stay, Planchet, it breaks my heart to merely think of it."
"I fancy myself there and that I see him staggering and hear
him stammering," said Planchet, in a piteous tone, "but at
all events we shall soon know the real state of things, for
I imagine that those lofty walls, now turning ruby in the
setting sun, are the walls of Blois."
"Probably; and those steeples, pointed and sculptured, that
we catch a glimpse of yonder, are similar to those that I
have heard described at Chambord."
At this moment one of those heavy wagons, drawn by bullocks,
which carry the wood cut in the fine forests of the country
to the ports of the Loire, came out of a byroad full of ruts
and turned on that which the two horsemen were following. A
man carrying a long switch with a nail at the end of it,
with which he urged on his slow team, was walking with the
cart.
"Ho! friend," cried Planchet.
"What's your pleasure, gentlemen?" replied the peasant, with
a purity of accent peculiar to the people of that district
and which might have put to shame the cultured denizens of
the Sorbonne and the Rue de l'Universite.
"We are looking for the house of Monsieur de la Fere," said
D'Artagnan.
The peasant took off his hat on hearing this revered name.
"Gentlemen," he said, "the wood that I am carting is his; I
