Александр Дюма
Louise de la Valliere
Chapter LIV. Porthos’s Plan of Action
The great number of individuals we have introduced into this long story is the reason why each of them has been forced to appear only in turn, according to the exigencies of the recital. The result is, that our readers have had no opportunity of meeting our friend Porthos since his return from Fontainebleau. The honors which he had received from the king had not changed the easy, affectionate character of that excellent-hearted man; he may, perhaps, have held up his head a little higher than usual, and a majesty of demeanor, as it were, may have betrayed itself since the honor of dining at the king’s table had been accorded him. His majesty’s banqueting-room had produced a certain effect on Porthos. Le Seigneur de Bracieux et de Pierrefonds delighted to remember that, during that memorable dinner, the numerous array of servants, and the large number of officials in attendance on the guests, gave a certain tone and effect to the repast, and seemed, as it were, to furnish the room. Porthos undertook to confer upon Mouston a position of some kind or other, in order to establish a sort of hierarchy among his other domestics, and to create a military household, which was not unusual among the great captains of the age, since, in the preceding century, this luxury had been greatly encouraged by Messieurs de Treville, de Schomberg, de la Vieuville, without alluding to M. de Richelieu, M. de Conde, and de Bouillon-Turenne. And, therefore, why should not he, Porthos, the friend of the king, and of M. Fouquet, a baron, and engineer, etc., why should not he, indeed, enjoy all the delightful privileges which large possessions and unusual merit invariably confer? Somewhat neglected by Aramis, who, we know, was greatly occupied with M. Fouquet; neglected, also, on account of his being on duty, by D’Artagnan; tired of Truchen and Planchet, Porthos was surprised to find himself dreaming, without precisely knowing why; but if any one had said to him, “Do you want anything, Porthos?” he would most certainly have replied, “Yes.” After one of those dinners, during which Porthos attempted to recall to his recollection all the details of the royal banquet, gently joyful, thanks to the excellence of the wines; gently melancholy, thanks to his ambitious ideas, Porthos was gradually falling off into a placid doze, when his servant entered to announce that M. de Bragelonne wished to speak to him. Porthos passed into an adjoining room, where he found his young friend in the disposition of mind we are already aware of. Raoul advanced towards Porthos, and shook him by the hand; Porthos, surprised at his seriousness of aspect, offered him a seat. “Dear M. du Vallon,” said Raoul, “I have a service to ask of you.”
“Nothing could happen more fortunately, my young friend,” replied Porthos; “I have eight thousand livres sent me this morning from Pierrefonds; and if you want any money – ”
“No, I thank you; it is not money.”
“So much the worse, then. I have always heard it said that that is the rarest service, but the easiest to render. The remark struck me; I like to cite remarks that strike me.”
“Your heart is as good as your mind is sound and true.”
“You are much too kind, I declare. You will dine here, of course?”
“No; I am not hungry.”
“Eh! not dine? What a dreadful country England is!”
“Not too much so, indeed – but – ”
“Well, if such excellent fish and meat were not to be procured there, it would hardly be endurable.”
“Yes, I came to – ”
“I am listening. Only just allow me to take a little sip. One gets thirsty in Paris;” and he ordered a bottle of champagne to be brought; and, having first filled Raoul’s glass, he filled his own, drank it down at a gulp, and then resumed: “I needed that, in order to listen to you with proper attention. I am now entirely at your service. What do you wish to ask me, dear Raoul? What do you want?”
“Give me your opinion on quarrels in general, my dear friend.”
“My opinion! Well – but – Explain your idea a little more coherently,” replied Porthos, rubbing his forehead.
“I mean – you are generally good-humored, good-tempered, whenever any misunderstanding arises between a friend of yours and a stranger, for instance?”
“Oh! in the best of tempers.”
“Very good; but what do you do, in such a case?”
“Whenever any friend of mine gets into a quarrel, I always act on one principle.”
“What is that?”
“That lost time is irreparable, and one never arranges an affair so well as when everything has been done to embroil the disputants as much as possible.”
“Ah! indeed, is that the principle on which you proceed?”
“Precisely; so, as soon as a quarrel takes place, I bring the two parties together.”
“Exactly.”
“You understand that by this means it is impossible for an affair not to be arranged.”
“I should have thought that, treated in this manner, an affair would, on the contrary – ”
“Oh! not the least in the world. Just fancy, now, I have had in my life something like a hundred and eighty to a hundred and ninety regular duels, without reckoning hasty encounters, or chance meetings.”
“It is a very handsome aggregate,” said Raoul, unable to resist a smile.
“A mere nothing; but I am so gentle. D’Artagnan reckons his duels by hundreds. It is very true he is a little too hard and sharp – I have often told him so.”
“And so,” resumed Raoul, “you generally arrange the affairs of honor your friends confide to you.”
“There is not a single instance in which I have not finished by arranging every one of them,” said Porthos, with a gentleness and confidence that surprised Raoul.
“But the way in which you settle them is at least honorable, I suppose?”
“Oh! rely upon that; and at this stage, I will explain my other principle to you. As soon as my friend has intrusted his quarrel to me, this is what I do; I go to his adversary at once, armed with a politeness and self-possession absolutely requisite under such circumstances.”
“That is the way, then,” said Raoul, bitterly, “that you arrange affairs so safely.”
“I believe you. I go to the adversary, then, and say to him: ‘It is impossible, monsieur, that you are ignorant of the extent to which you have insulted my friend.’” Raoul frowned at this remark.
“It sometimes happens – very often, indeed,” pursued Porthos – “that my friend has not been insulted at all; he has even been the first to give offense; you can imagine, therefore, whether my language is or is not well chosen.” And Porthos burst into a peal of laughter.
“Decidedly,” said Raoul to himself while the merry thunder of Porthos’s laughter was resounding in his ears, “I am very unfortunate. De Guiche treats me with coolness, D’Artagnan with ridicule, Porthos is too tame; no one will settle this affair in the only way I wish it to be settled. And I came to Porthos because I wanted to find a sword instead of cold reasoning at my service. My ill-luck dogs me.”
Porthos, who had recovered himself, continued: “By one simple expression, I leave my adversary without an excuse.”
“That is as it may happen,” said Raoul, absently.
“Not at all, it is quite certain. I have not left him an excuse; and then it is that I display all my courtesy, in order to attain the happy issue of my project. I advance, therefore, with an air of great politeness, and taking my adversary by the hand, I say to him: ‘Now that you are convinced of having given the offense, we are sure of reparation; between my friend and yourself, the future can only offer an exchange of mutual courtesies of conduct, and consequently, my mission now is to acquaint you with the length of my friend’s sword.’”
“What!” said Raoul.
“Wait a minute. ‘The length of my friend’s sword. My horse is waiting below; my friend is in such and such a spot and is impatiently awaiting your agreeable society; I will take you with me; we can call upon your second as we go along:’ and the affair is arranged.”
“And so,” said Raoul, pale with vexation, “you reconcile the two adversaries on the ground.”
“I beg your pardon,” interrupted Porthos. “Reconcile! What for?”
“You said that the affair was arranged.”
“Of course! since my friend is waiting for him.”
“Well! what then? If he is waiting – ”
“Well! if he is waiting, it is merely to stretch his legs a little. The adversary, on the contrary, is stiff from riding; they place themselves in proper order, and my friend kills the opponent, and the affair is ended.”
“Ah! he kills him, then?” cried Raoul.
“I should think so,” said Porthos. “Is it likely I should ever have as a friend a man who allows himself to get killed? I have a hundred and one friends; at the head of the list stand your father, Aramis, and D’Artagnan, all of whom are living and well, I believe?”
“Oh, my dear baron,” exclaimed Raoul, as he embraced Porthos.
“You approve of my method, then?” said the giant.
“I approve of it so thoroughly, that I shall have recourse to it this very day, without a moment’s delay, – at once, in fact. You are the very man I have been looking for.”
“Good; here I am, then; you want to fight, I suppose?”
“Absolutely.”
“It is very natural. With whom?”
“With M. de Saint-Aignan.”
“I know him – a most agreeable man, who was exceedingly polite to me the day I had the honor of dining with the king. I shall certainly acknowledge his politeness in return, even if it had not happened to be my usual custom. So, he has given you an offense?”
“A mortal offense.”
“The deuce! I can say so, I suppose?”
“More than that, even, if you like.”
“That is a very great convenience.”
“I may look upon it as one of your arranged affairs, may I not?” said Raoul, smiling.
“As a matter of course. Where will you be waiting for him?”
“Ah! I forgot; it is a very delicate matter. M. de Saint-Aignan is a very great friend of the king’s.”
“So I have heard it said.”
“So that if I kill him – ”
“Oh! you will kill him, certainly; you must take every precaution to do so. But there is no difficulty in these matters now; if you had lived in our early days, – ah, those were days worth living for!”
“My dear friend, you do not quite understand me. I mean, that M. de Saint-Aignan being a friend of the king, the affair will be more difficult to manage, since the king might learn beforehand – ”
“Oh! no; that is not likely. You know my method: ‘Monsieur, you have just injured my friend, and – ‘”
“Yes, I know it.”
“And then: ‘Monsieur, I have horses below.’ I carry him off before he can have spoken to any one.”
“Will he allow himself to be carried off like that?”
“I should think so! I should like to see it fail. It would be the first time, if it did. It is true, though, that the young men of the present day – Bah! I would carry him off bodily, if that were all,” and Porthos, adding gesture to speech, lifted Raoul and the chair he was sitting on off the ground, and carried them round the room.
“Very good,” said Raoul, laughing. “All we have to do is to state the grounds of the quarrel with M. de Saint-Aignan.”
“Well, but that is done, it seems.”
“No, my dear M. du Vallon, the usage of the present day requires that the cause of the quarrel should be explained.”
“Very good. Tell me what it is, then.”
“The fact is – ”
“Deuce take it! how troublesome all this is! In former days we had no occasion to say anything about the matter. People fought for the sake of fighting; and I, for one, know no better reason than that.”
“You are quite right, M. du Vallon.”
“However, tell me what the cause is.”
“It is too long a story to tell; only, as one must particularize to a certain extent, and as, on the other hand, the affair is full of difficulties, and requires the most absolute secrecy, you will have the kindness merely to tell M. de Saint-Aignan that he has, in the first place, insulted me by changing his lodgings.”
“By changing his lodgings? Good,” said Porthos, who began to count on his fingers; “next?”
“Then in getting a trap-door made in his new apartments.”
“I understand,” said Porthos; “a trap-door: upon my word, that is very serious; you ought to be furious at that. What the deuce does the fellow mean by getting trap-doors made without first consulting you? Trap-doors! mordioux! I haven’t got any, except in my dungeons at Bracieux.”
“And you will please add,” said Raoul, “that my last motive for considering myself insulted is, the existence of the portrait that M. de Saint-Aignan well knows.”
“Is it possible? A portrait, too! A change of residence, a trap-door, and a portrait! Why, my dear friend, with but one of these causes of complaint there is enough, and more than enough, for all the gentlemen in France and Spain to cut each other’s throats, and that is saying but very little.”
“Well, my dear friend, you are furnished with all you need, I suppose?”
“I shall take a second horse with me. Select your own rendezvous, and while you are waiting there, you can practice some of the best passes, so as to get your limbs as elastic as possible.”
“Thank you. I shall be waiting for you in the wood of Vincennes, close to Minimes.”
“All goes well, then. Where am I to find this M. de Saint-Aignan?”
“At the Palais Royal.”
Porthos ran a huge hand-bell. “My court suit,” he said to the servant who answered the summons, “my horse, and a led horse to accompany me.” Then turning to Raoul, as soon as the servant had quitted the room, he said: “Does your father know anything about this?”
“No; I am going to write to him.”
“And D’Artagnan?”
“No, nor D’Artagnan either. He is very cautious, you know, and might have diverted me from my purpose.”
“D’Artagnan is a sound adviser, though,” said Porthos, astonished that, in his own loyal faith in D’Artagnan, any one could have thought of himself, so long as there was a D’Artagnan in the world.
“Dear M. du Vallon,” said Raoul, “do not question me any more, I implore you. I have told you all that I had to say; it is prompt action I now expect, sharp and decided as you know how to arrange it. That, indeed, is my reason for having chosen you.”
“You will be satisfied with me,” replied Porthos.
“Do not forget, either, that, except ourselves, no one must know anything of this meeting.”
“People generally find these things out,” said Porthos, dryly, “when a dead body is discovered in a wood. But I promise everything, my dear friend, except the concealment of the dead body. There it is, and it must be seen, as a matter of course. It is a principle of mine, not to bury bodies. That has a smack of the assassin about it. Every risk has its peculiarities.”
“To work, then, my dear friend.”
“Rely upon me,” said the giant, finishing the bottle, while a servant spread out upon a sofa the gorgeously decorated dress trimmed with lace.
Raoul left the room, saying to himself, with a secret delight, “Perfidious king! traitorous monarch! I cannot reach thee. I do not wish it; for kings are sacred objects. But your friend, your accomplice, your panderer – the coward who represents you – shall pay for your crime. I will kill him in thy name, and, afterwards, we will bethink ourselves of —Louise.”
Chapter LV. The Change of Residence, the Trap-Door, and the Portrait
Porthos, intrusted, to his great delight, with this mission, which made him feel young again, took half an hour less than his usual time to put on his court suit. To show that he was a man acquainted with the usages of high society, he had begun by sending his lackey to inquire if Monsieur de Saint-Aignan were at home, and heard, in answer, that M. le Comte de Saint-Aignan had had the honor of accompanying the king to Saint-Germain, as well as the whole court; but that monsieur le comte had just that moment returned. Immediately upon this reply, Porthos made as much haste as possible, and reached Saint-Aignan’s apartments just as the latter was having his boots taken off. The promenade had been delightful. The king, who was in love more than ever, and of course happier than ever, behaved in the most charming manner to every one. Nothing could possibly equal his kindness. M. de Saint-Aignan, it may be remembered, was a poet, and fancied that he had proved that he was so under too many a memorable circumstance to allow the title to be disputed by any one. An indefatigable rhymester, he had, during the whole of the journey, overwhelmed with quatrains, sextains, and madrigals, first the king, and then La Valliere. The king, on his side, was in a similarly poetical mood, and had made a distich; while La Valliere, delighting in poetry, as most women do who are in love, had composed two sonnets. The day, then, had not been a bad one for Apollo; and so, as soon as he had returned to Paris, Saint-Aignan, who knew beforehand that his verse would be sure to be extensively circulated in court circles, occupied himself, with a little more attention than he had been able to bestow during the promenade, with the composition, as well as with the idea itself. Consequently, with all the tenderness of a father about to start his children in life, he candidly interrogated himself whether the public would find these offsprings of his imagination sufficiently elegant and graceful; and in order to make his mind easy on the subject, M. de Saint-Aignan recited to himself the madrigal he had composed, and which he had repeated from memory to the king, and had promised to write out for him on his return. All the time he was committing these words to memory, the comte was engaged in undressing himself more completely. He had just taken off his coat, and was putting on his dressing-gown, when he was informed that Monsieur le Baron du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds was waiting to be received.
“Eh!” he said, “what does that bunch of names mean? I don’t know anything about him.”
“It is the same gentleman,” replied the lackey, “who had the honor of dining with you, monseigneur, at the king’s table, when his majesty was staying at Fontainebleau.”
“Introduce him, then, at once,” cried Saint-Aignan.
Porthos, in a few minutes, entered the room. M. de Saint-Aignan had an excellent recollection of persons, and, at the first glance, he recognized the gentleman from the country, who enjoyed so singular a reputation, and whom the king had received so favorably at Fontainebleau, in spite of the smiles of some of those who were present. He therefore advanced towards Porthos with all the outward signs of consideration of manner which Porthos thought but natural, considering that he himself, whenever he called upon an adversary, hoisted a standard of the most refined politeness. Saint-Aignan desired the servant to give Porthos a chair; and the latter, who saw nothing unusual in this act of politeness, sat down gravely and coughed. The ordinary courtesies having been exchanged between the two gentlemen, the comte, to whom the visit was paid, said, “May I ask, monsieur le baron, to what happy circumstance I am indebted for the favor of a visit from you?”
“The very thing I am about to have the honor of explaining to you, monsieur le comte; but, I beg your pardon – ”
“What is the matter, monsieur?” inquired Saint-Aignan.
“I regret to say that I have broken your chair.”
“Not at all, monsieur,” said Saint-Aignan; “not at all.”
“It is the fact, though, monsieur le comte; I have broken it – so much so, indeed, that if I do not move, I shall fall down, which would be an exceedingly disagreeable position for me in the discharge of the very serious mission which has been intrusted to me with regard to yourself.”
Porthos rose; and but just in time, for the chair had given way several inches. Saint-Aignan looked about him for something more solid for his guest to sit upon.
“Modern articles of furniture,” said Porthos, while the comte was looking about, “are constructed in a ridiculously flimsy manner. In my early days, when I used to sit down with far more energy than is now the case, I do not remember ever to have broken a chair, except in taverns, with my arms.”
Saint-Aignan smiled at this remark. “But,” said Porthos, as he settled himself down on a couch, which creaked, but did not give way beneath his weight, “that unfortunately has nothing whatever to do with my present visit.”
“Why unfortunately? Are you the bearer of a message of ill-omen, monsieur le baron?”
“Of ill-omen – for a gentleman? Certainly not, monsieur le comte,” replied Porthos, nobly. “I have simply come to say that you have seriously insulted a friend of mine.”
“I, monsieur?” exclaimed Saint-Aignan – “I have insulted a friend of yours, do you say? May I ask his name?”
“M. Raoul de Bragelonne.”
“I have insulted M. Raoul de Bragelonne!” cried Saint-Aignan. “I really assure you, monsieur, that it is quite impossible; for M. de Bragelonne, whom I know but very slightly, – nay, whom I know hardly at all – is in England, and, as I have not seen him for a long time past, I cannot possibly have insulted him.”
“M. de Bragelonne is in Paris, monsieur le comte,” said Porthos, perfectly unmoved; “and I repeat, it is quite certain you have insulted him, since he himself told me you had. Yes, monsieur, you have seriously insulted him, mortally insulted him, I repeat.”
“It is impossible, monsieur le baron, I swear, quite impossible.”
“Besides,” added Porthos, “you cannot be ignorant of the circumstance, since M. de Bragelonne informed me that he had already apprised you of it by a note.”
“I give you my word of honor, monsieur, that I have received no note whatever.”
“This is most extraordinary,” replied Porthos.
“I will convince you,” said Saint-Aignan, “that have received nothing in any way from him.” And he rang the bell. “Basque,” he said to the servant who entered, “how many letters or notes were sent here during my absence?”
“Three, monsieur le comte – a note from M. de Fiesque, one from Madame de Laferte, and a letter from M. de las Fuentes.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes, monsieur le comte.”
“Speak the truth before this gentleman – the truth, you understand. I will take care you are not blamed.”
“There was a note, also, from – from – ”
“Well, from whom?”
“From Mademoiselle – de – ”
“Out with it!”
“De Laval.”
“That is quite sufficient,” interrupted Porthos. “I believe you, monsieur le comte.”
Saint-Aignan dismissed the valet, and followed him to the door, in order to close it after him; and when he had done so, looking straight before him, he happened to see in the keyhole of the adjoining apartment the paper which Bragelonne had slipped in there as he left. “What is this?” he said.
Porthos, who was sitting with his back to the room, turned round. “Aha!” he said.
“A note in the keyhole!” exclaimed Saint-Aignan.
“That is not unlikely to be the missing letter, monsieur le comte,” said Porthos.
Saint-Aignan took out the paper. “A note from M. de Bragelonne!” he exclaimed.
“You see, monsieur, I was right. Oh, when I say a thing – ”
“Brought here by M. de Bragelonne himself,” the comte murmured, turning pale. “This is infamous! How could he possibly have come here?” And the comte rang again.
“Who has been here during my absence with the king?”
“No one, monsieur.”
“That is impossible! Some one must have been here.”
“No one could possibly have entered, monsieur, since the keys have never left my pocket.”
“And yet I find the letter in yonder lock; some one must have put it there; it could not have come here of its own accord.”
Basque opened his arms as if signifying the most absolute ignorance on the subject.
“Probably it was M. de Bragelonne himself who placed it there,” said Porthos.
“In that case he must have entered here.”
“How could that have been, since I have the key in my own pocket?” returned Basque, perseveringly.
Saint-Aignan crumpled the letter in his palm, after having read it. “There is something mysterious about this,” he murmured, absorbed in thought. Porthos left him to his reflections; but after a while returned to the mission he had undertaken.
“Shall we return to our little affair?” Porthos resumed, addressing Saint-Aignan after a brief pause.
“I think I can now understand it, from this note, which has arrived here in so singular a manner. Monsieur de Bragelonne says that a friend will call.”
“I am his friend. I am the person he alludes to.”
“For the purpose of giving me a challenge?”
“Precisely.”
“And he complains that I have insulted him?”
“Mortally.”
“In what way, may I ask; for his conduct is so mysterious, that, at least, it needs some explanation?”
“Monsieur,” replied Porthos, “my friend cannot but be right; and, as far as his conduct is concerned, if it be mysterious, as you say, you have only yourself to blame for it.” Porthos pronounced these words with an amount of confidence which, for a man who was unaccustomed to his ways, must have revealed an infinity of sense.
“Mystery, so be it; but what is all the mystery about?” said Saint-Aignan.
“You will think it the best, perhaps,” Porthos replied, with a low bow, “if I do not enter in to particulars.”
“Oh, I perfectly understand. We will touch very lightly upon it, then, so speak, monsieur, I am listening.”
“In the first place, monsieur,” said Porthos, “you have changed your apartments.”
“Yes, that is quite true,” said Saint-Aignan.
“You admit it,” said Porthos, with an air of satisfaction.
“Admit it! of course I admit it. Why should I not admit it, do you suppose?”
“You have admitted it. Very good,” said Porthos, lifting up one finger.
“But how can my having moved my lodgings have done M. de Bragelonne any harm? Have the goodness to tell me that, for I positively do not comprehend a word of what you are saying.”
Porthos stopped him, and then said, with great gravity, “Monsieur, this is the first of M. de Bragelonne’s complaints against you. If he makes a complaint, it is because he feels himself insulted.”
Saint-Aignan began to beat his foot impatiently on the ground. “This looks like a spurious quarrel,” he said.
“No one can possibly have a spurious quarrel with the Vicomte de Bragelonne,” returned Porthos; “but, at all events, you have nothing to add on the subject of your changing your apartments, I suppose?”
“Nothing. And what is the next point?”
“Ah, the next! You will observe, monsieur, that the one I have already mentioned is a most serious injury, to which you have given no answer, or rather, have answered very indifferently. Is it possible, monsieur, that you have changed your lodgings? M. de Bragelonne feels insulted at your having done so, and you do not attempt to excuse yourself.”
“What!” cried Saint-Aignan, who was getting annoyed at the perfect coolness of his visitor – “what! am I to consult M. de Bragelonne whether I am to move or not? You can hardly be serious, monsieur.”
“I am. And it is absolutely necessary, monsieur; but under any circumstances, you will admit that it is nothing in comparison with the second ground of complaint.”
“Well, what is that?”
Porthos assumed a very solemn expression as he said: “How about the trap-door, monsieur?”
Saint-Aignan turned exceedingly pale. He pushed back his chair so abruptly, that Porthos, simple as he was, perceived that the blow had told. “The trap-door,” murmured Saint-Aignan.
“Yes, monsieur, explain that if you can,” said Porthos, shaking his head.
Saint-Aignan held down his head, as he murmured: “I have been betrayed, everything is known!”
“Everything,” replied Porthos, who knew nothing.
“You see me perfectly overwhelmed,” pursued Saint-Aignan, “overwhelmed to a degree that I hardly know what I am about.”
“A guilty conscience, monsieur. Your affair is a bad one, and when the public learns all about it, it will judge – ”
“Oh, monsieur!” exclaimed the count, hurriedly, “such a secret ought not to be known even by one’s confessor.”
“That we will think about,” said Porthos; “the secret will not go far, in fact.”
“Surely, monsieur,” returned Saint-Aignan, “since M. de Bragelonne has penetrated the secret, he must be aware of the danger he as well as others run the risk of incurring.”
“M. de Bragelonne runs no danger, monsieur, nor does he fear any either, as you, if it please Heaven, will find out very soon.”
“This fellow is a perfect madman,” thought Saint-Aignan. “What, in Heaven’s name, does he want?” He then said aloud: “Come, monsieur, let us hush up this affair.”
“You forget the portrait,” said Porthos, in a voice of thunder, which made the comte’s blood freeze in his veins.
As the portrait in question was La Valliere’s portrait, and no mistake could any longer exist on the subject, Saint-Aignan’s eyes were completely opened. “Ah!” he exclaimed – “ah! monsieur, I remember now that M. de Bragelonne was engaged to be married to her.”
Porthos assumed an imposing air, all the majesty of ignorance, in fact, as he said: “It matters nothing whatever to me, nor to yourself, indeed, whether or not my friend was, as you say, engaged to be married. I am even astonished that you should have made use of so indiscreet a remark. It may possibly do your cause harm, monsieur.”
“Monsieur,” replied Saint-Aignan, “you are the incarnation of intelligence, delicacy, and loyalty of feeling united. I see the whole matter now clearly enough.”
“So much the better,” said Porthos.
“And,” pursued Saint-Aignan, “you have made me comprehend it in the most ingenious and the most delicate manner possible. I beg you to accept my best thanks.” Porthos drew himself up, unable to resist the flattery of the remark. “Only, now that I know everything, permit me to explain – ”
Porthos shook his head, as a man who does not wish to hear, but Saint-Aignan continued: “I am in despair, I assure you, at all that has happened; but how would you have acted in my place? Come, between ourselves, tell me what you would have done?”
Porthos drew himself up as he answered: “There is now no question at all of what I should have done, young man; you have been made acquainted with the three causes of complaint against you, I believe?”
“As for the first, my change of rooms, and I now address myself to you as a man of honor and of great intelligence, could I, when the desire of so august a personage was so urgently expressed that I should move, ought I to have disobeyed?”
