Александр Дюма
The Vicomte De Bragelonne
Chapter LXX. Wherein the Ideas of D'Artagnan begin to clear up a little
D'Artagnan immediately took the offensive. "Now that I have told you all, dear friend, or rather you have guessed all, tell me what you are doing here, covered with dust and mud?"
Porthos wiped his brow, and looked around him with pride. "Why, it appears," said he, "that you may see what I am doing here."
"No doubt, no doubt, you lift great stones."
"Oh! to show these idle fellows what a man is," said Porthos, with contempt. "But you understand-"
"Yes, that is not your place to lift stones, although there are many whose place it is, who cannot lift them as you do. It was that which made me ask you, just now. What are you doing here, baron?"
"I am studying topography, chevalier."
"You are studying topography?"
"Yes; but you-what are you doing in that common dress?"
D'Artagnan perceived he had committed a fault in giving expression to his astonishment. Porthos had taken advantage of it, to retort with a question. "Why," said he, "you know I am a bourgeois, in fact; my dress, then, has nothing astonishing in it, since it conforms with my condition."
"Nonsense! you are a musketeer."
"You are wrong, my friend; I have given in my resignation."
"Bah!"
"Oh, mon Dieu! yes."
"And you have abandoned the service?"
"I have quitted it."
"You have abandoned the king?"
"Quite."
Porthos raised his arms towards heaven, like a man who has heard extraordinary news. "Well, that does confound me," said he.
"It is nevertheless true."
"And what led you to form such a resolution."
"The king displeased me. Mazarin had disgusted me for a long time, as you know; so I threw my cassock to the nettles."
"But Mazarin is dead."
"I know that well enough, parbleu! Only, at the period of his death, my resignation had been given in and accepted two months. Then, feeling myself free, I set off for Pierrefonds, to see my friend Porthos. I had heard talk of the happy division you had made of your time, and I wished, for a fortnight, to divide mine after your fashion."
"My friend, you know that it is not for a fortnight my house is open to you; it is for a year-for ten years-for life."
"Thank you, Porthos."
"Ah! but perhaps you want money-do you?" said Porthos, making something like fifty louis chink in his pocket. "In that case, you know-"
"No, thank you; I am not in want of anything. I placed my savings with Planchet, who pays me the interest of them."
"Your savings?"
"Yes, to be sure," said D'Artagnan: "why should I not put by my savings, as well as another, Porthos?"
"Oh, there is no reason why; on the contrary, I always suspected you-that is to say, Aramis always suspected you to have savings. For my own part, d'ye see, I take no concern about the management of my household; but I presume the savings of a musketeer must be small."
"No doubt, relative to yourself, Porthos, who are a millionaire; but you shall judge. I had laid by twenty-five thousand livres."
"That's pretty well," said Porthos, with an affable air.
"And," continued D'Artagnan, "on the twenty-eighth of last month I added to it two hundred thousand livres more."
Porthos opened his large eyes, which eloquently demanded of the musketeer, "Where the devil did you steal such a sum as that, my dear friend?" "Two hundred thousand livres!" cried he, at length.
"Yes; which, with the twenty-five I had, and twenty thousand I have about me, complete the sum of two hundred and forty-five thousand livres."
"But tell me, whence comes this fortune?"
"I will tell you all about it presently, dear friend; but as you have, in the first place, many things to tell me yourself, let us have my recital in its proper order."
"Bravo!" said Porthos; "then we are both rich. But what can I have to relate to you?"
"You have to relate to me how Aramis came to be named-"
"Ah! bishop of Vannes."
"That's it," said D'Artagnan, "bishop of Vannes. Dear Aramis! do you know how he succeeded so well?"
"Yes, yes; without reckoning that he does not mean to stop there."
"What! do you mean he will not be contented with violet stockings, and that he wants a red hat?"
"Hush! that is promised him."
"Bah! by the king?"
"By somebody more powerful than the king."
"Ah! the devil! Porthos: what incredible things you tell me, my friend!"
"Why incredible? Is there not always somebody in France more powerful than the king?"
"Oh, yes; in the time of King Louis XIII. it was Cardinal Richelieu; in the time of the regency it was Cardinal Mazarin. In the time of Louis XIV. it is M-"
"Go on."
"It is M. Fouquet."
"Jove! you have hit it the first time."
"So, then, I suppose it is M. Fouquet who has promised Aramis the red hat."
Porthos assumed an air of reserve. "Dear friend," said he, "God preserve me from meddling with the affairs of others, above all from revealing secrets it may be to their interest to keep. When you see Aramis, he will tell you all he thinks he ought to tell you."
"You are right, Porthos; and you are quite a padlock for safety. But, to revert to yourself?"
"Yes," said Porthos.
"You said just now you came hither to study topography?"
"I did so."
"Tudieu! my friend, what fine things you will do!"
"How do you mean?"
"Why, these fortifications are admirable."
"Is that your opinion?"
"Decidedly it is. In truth, to anything but a regular siege, Belle-Isle is absolutely impregnable."
Porthos rubbed his hands. "That is my opinion," said he.
"But who the devil has fortified this paltry little place in this manner?"
Porthos drew himself up proudly: "Did I not tell you who?"
"No."
"Do you not suspect?"
"No; all I can say is that he is a man who has studied all the systems, and who appears to me to have stopped at the best."
"Hush!" said Porthos; "consider my modesty, my dear D'Artagnan."
"In truth," replied the musketeer, "can it be you-who-oh!"
"Pray-my dear friend-"
"You who have imagined, traced, and combined between these bastions, these redans, these curtains, these half-moons; and are preparing that covered way?"
"I beg you-"
"You who have built that lunette with its retiring angles and its salient edges?"
"My friend-"
"You who have given that inclination to the openings of your embrasures, by means of which you so effectively protect the men who serve the guns?"
"Eh! mon Dieu! yes."
"Oh! Porthos, Porthos! I must bow down before you-I must admire you! But you have always concealed from us this superb, this incomparable genius. I hope, my dear friend, you will show me all this in detail."
"Nothing more easy. Here lies my original sketch, my plan."
"Show it me." Porthos led D'Artagnan towards the stone that served him for a table, and upon which the plan was spread. At the foot of the plan was written, in the formidable writing of Porthos, writing of which we have already had occasion to speak: -
"Instead of making use of the square or rectangle, as has been done to this time, you will suppose your place inclosed in a regular hexagon, this polygon having the advantage of offering more angles than the quadrilateral one. Every side of your hexagon, of which you will determine the length in proportion to the dimensions taken upon the place, will be divided into two parts, and upon the middle point you will elevate a perpendicular towards the center of the polygon, which will equal in length the sixth part of the side. By the extremities of each side of the polygon, you will trace two diagonals, which will cut the perpendicular. These will form the precise lines of your defense."
"The devil!" said D'Artagnan, stopping at this point of the demonstration; "why, this is a complete system, Porthos."
"Entirely," said Porthos. "Continue."
"No; I have read enough of it; but, since it is you, my dear Porthos, who direct the works, what need have you of setting down your system so formally in writing?"
"Oh! my dear friend, death!"
"How! death?"
"Why, we are all mortal, are we not?"
"That is true," said D'Artagnan; "you have a reply for everything, my friend." And he replaced the plan upon the stone.
But however short the time he had the plan in his hands, D'Artagnan had been able to distinguish, under the enormous writing of Porthos, a much more delicate hand, which reminded him of certain letters to Marie Michon, with which he had been acquainted in his youth. Only the India-rubber had passed and repassed so often over this writing that it might have escaped a less practiced eye than that of our musketeer.
"Bravo! my friend, bravo!" said D'Artagnan.
"And now you know all that you want to know, do you not?" said Porthos, wheeling about.
"Mordioux! yes, only do me one last favor, dear friend!"
"Speak, I am master here."
"Do me the pleasure to tell me the name of that gentleman who is walking yonder."
"Where, there?"
"Behind the soldiers."
"Followed by a lackey?"
"Exactly."
"In company with a mean sort of fellow, dressed in black?"
"Yes, I mean him."
"That is M. Getard."
"And who is Getard, my friend?"
"He is the architect of the house."
"Of what house?"
"Of M. Fouquet's house."
"Ah! ah!" cried D'Artagnan, "you are of the household of M. Fouquet, then, Porthos?"
"I! what do you mean by that?" said the topographer, blushing to the top of his ears.
"Why, you say the house, when speaking of Belle-Isle, as if you were speaking of the chateau of Pierrefonds."
Porthos bit his lip. "Belle-Isle, my friend," said he, "belongs to M. Fouquet, does it not?"
"Yes, I believe so."
"As Pierrefonds belongs to me?"
"I told you I believed so; there are no two words to that."
"Did you ever see a man there who is accustomed to walk about with a ruler in his hand?"
"No; but I might have seen him there, if he really walked there."
"Well, that gentleman is M. Boulingrin."
"Who is M. Boulingrin?"
"Now we are coming to it. If, when this gentleman is walking with a ruler in his hand, any one should ask me, – 'who is M. Boulingrin?' I should reply: 'He is the architect of the house.' Well! M. Getard is the Boulingrin of M. Fouquet. But he has nothing to do with the fortifications, which are my department alone; do you understand? mine, absolutely mine."
"Ah! Porthos," cried D'Artagnan, letting his arms fall as a conquered man gives up his sword; "ah! my friend, you are not only a Herculean topographer, you are, still further, a dialectician of the first water."
"Is it not powerfully reasoned?" said Porthos: and he puffed and blew like the conger which D'Artagnan had let slip from his hand.
"And now," said D'Artagnan, "that shabby-looking man, who accompanies M. Getard, is he also of the household of M. Fouquet?"
"Oh! yes," said Porthos, with contempt; "it is one M. Jupenet, or Juponet, a sort of poet."
"Who is come to establish himself here?"
"I believe so."
"I thought M. Fouquet had poets enough, yonder-Scudery, Loret, Pelisson, La Fontaine? If I must tell you the truth, Porthos, that poet disgraces you."
"Eh! – my friend; but what saves us is that he is not here as a poet."
"As what, then, is he?"
"As printer. And you make me remember, I have a word to say to the cuistre."
"Say it, then."
Porthos made a sign to Jupenet, who perfectly recollected D'Artagnan, and did not care to come nearer; which naturally produced another sign from Porthos. This was so imperative, he was obliged to obey. As he approached, "Come hither!" said Porthos. "You only landed yesterday and you have begun your tricks already."
"How so, monsieur le baron?" asked Jupenet, trembling.
"Your press was groaning all night, monsieur," said Porthos, "and you prevented my sleeping, corne de boeuf!"
"Monsieur-" objected Jupenet, timidly.
"You have nothing yet to print: therefore you have no occasion to set your press going. What did you print last night?"
"Monsieur, a light poem of my own composition."
"Light! no, no, monsieur; the press groaned pitifully beneath it. Let it not happen again. Do you understand?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"You promise me?"
"I do, monsieur!"
"Very well; this time I pardon you. Adieu!"
The poet retreated as humbly as he had approached.
"Well, now we have combed that fellow's head, let us breakfast."
"Yes," replied D'Artagnan, "let us breakfast."
"Only," said Porthos, "I beg you to observe, my friend, that we only have two hours for our repast."
"What would you have? We will try to make two hours suffice. But why have you only two hours?"
"Because it is high tide at one o'clock, and, with the tide, I am going to Vannes. But, as I shall return to-morrow, my dear friend, you can stay here; you shall be master; I have a good cook and a good cellar."
"No," interrupted D'Artagnan, "better than that."
"What?"
"You are going to Vannes, you say?"
"To a certainty."
"To see Aramis?"
"Yes."
"Well! I came from Paris on purpose to see Aramis."
"That's true."
"I will go with you then."
"Do; that's the thing."
"Only, I ought to have seen Aramis first, and you after. But man proposes, and God disposes. I have begun with you, and will finish with Aramis."
"Very well!"
"And in how many hours can you go from here to Vannes?"
"Oh! pardieu! in six hours. Three hours by sea to Sarzeau, three hours by road from Sarzeau to Vannes."
"How convenient that is! Being so near to the bishopric; do you often go to Vannes?"
"Yes; once a week. But, stop till I get my plan."
Porthos picked up his plan, folded it carefully, and engulfed it in his large pocket.
"Good!" said D'Artagnan aside; "I think I now know the real engineer who is fortifying Belle-Isle."
Two hours after, at high tide, Porthos and D'Artagnan set out for Sarzeau.
Chapter LXXI. A Procession at Vannes
The passage from Belle-Isle to Sarzeau was made rapidly enough, thanks to one of those little corsairs of which D'Artagnan had been told during his voyage, and which, shaped for fast sailing and destined for the chase, were sheltered at that time in the roadstead of Locmaria, where one of them, with a quarter of its war-crew, performed duty between Belle-Isle and the continent. D'Artagnan had an opportunity of convincing himself that Porthos, though engineer and topographer, was not deeply versed in affairs of state. His perfect ignorance, with any other, might have passed for well-informed dissimulation. But D'Artagnan knew too well all the folds and refolds of his Porthos, not to find a secret if there were one there; like those regular, minute old bachelors, who know how to find, with their eyes shut, each book on the shelves of their library and each piece of linen in their wardrobe. So if he had found nothing, our cunning D'Artagnan, in rolling and unrolling his Porthos, it was because, in truth, there was nothing to be found.
"Be it so," said D'Artagnan; "I shall get to know more at Vannes in half an hour than Porthos has discovered at Belle-Isle in two months. Only, in order that I may know something, it is important that Porthos should not make use of the only stratagem I leave at his disposal. He must not warn Aramis of my arrival." All the care of the musketeer was then, for the moment, confined to the watching of Porthos. And let us hasten to say, Porthos did not deserve all this mistrust. Porthos thought of no evil. Perhaps, on first seeing him, D'Artagnan had inspired him with a little suspicion; but almost immediately D'Artagnan had reconquered in that good and brave heart the place he had always occupied, and not the least cloud darkened the large eye of Porthos, fixed from time to time with tenderness on his friend.
On landing, Porthos inquired if his horses were waiting and soon perceived them at the crossing of the road that winds round Sarzeau, and which, without passing through that little city, leads towards Vannes. These horses were two in number, one for M. de Vallon, and one for his equerry; for Porthos had an equerry since Mouston was only able to use a carriage as a means of locomotion. D'Artagnan expected that Porthos would propose to send forward his equerry upon one horse to bring back another, and he-D'Artagnan-had made up his mind to oppose this proposition. But nothing D'Artagnan had expected happened. Porthos simply told the equerry to dismount and await his return at Sarzeau, whilst D'Artagnan would ride his horse; which was arranged.
"Eh! but you are quite a man of precaution, my dear Porthos," said D'Artagnan to his friend, when he found himself in the saddle, upon the equerry's horse.
"Yes; but this is a kindness on the part of Aramis. I have not my stud here, and Aramis has placed his stables at my disposal."
"Good horses for bishop's horses, mordioux!" said D'Artagnan. "It is true, Aramis is a bishop of a peculiar kind."
"He is a holy man!" replied Porthos, in a tone almost nasal, and with his eyes raised towards heaven.
"Then he is much changed," said D'Artagnan; "you and I have known him passably profane."
"Grace has touched him," said Porthos.
"Bravo," said D'Artagnan, "that redoubles my desire to see my dear old friend." And he spurred his horse, which sprang off into a more rapid pace.
"Peste!" said Porthos, "if we go on at this rate, we shall only take one hour instead of two."
"To go how far, do you say, Porthos?"
"Four leagues and a half."
"That will be a good pace."
"I could have embarked you on the canal, but the devil take rowers and boat-horses! The first are like tortoises; the second like snails; and when a man is able to put a good horse between his knees, that horse is better than rowers or any other means."
"You are right; you above all, Porthos, who always look magnificent on horseback."
"Rather heavy, my friend; I was weighed the other day."
"And what do you weigh?"
"Three hundred-weight!" said Porthos, proudly.
"Bravo!"
"So that you must perceive, I am forced to choose horses whose loins are straight and wide, otherwise I break them down in two hours."
"Yes, giant's horses you must have, must you not?"
"You are very polite, my friend," replied the engineer, with affectionate majesty.
"As a case in point," replied D'Artagnan, "your horse seems to sweat already."
"Dame! It is hot! Ah, ah! do you see Vannes now?"
"Yes, perfectly. It is a handsome city, apparently."
"Charming, according to Aramis, at least; but I think it black; but black seems to be considered handsome by artists: I am sorry for it."
"Why so, Porthos?"
"Because I have lately had my chateau of Pierrefonds, which was gray with age, plastered white."
"Humph!" said D'Artagnan, "and white is more cheerful."
"Yes, but it is less august, as Aramis tells me. Fortunately there are dealers in black as well as white. I will have Pierrefonds replastered in black; that's all there is about it. If gray is handsome, you understand, my friend, black must be superb."
"Dame!" said D'Artagnan, "that appears logical."
"Were you never at Vannes, D'Artagnan?"
"Never."
"Then you know nothing of the city?"
"Nothing."
"Well, look!" said Porthos, raising himself in his stirrups, which made the fore-quarters of his horse bend sadly, – "do you see that corner, in the sun, yonder?"
"Yes, I see it plainly."
"Well, that is the cathedral."
"Which is called?"
"Saint-Pierre. Now look again-in the faubourg on the left, do you see another cross?"
"Perfectly well."
"That is Saint-Patern, the parish preferred by Aramis."
"Indeed!"
"Without doubt. Saint-Patern, you see, passes for having been the first bishop of Vannes. It is true that Aramis pretends he was not. But he is so learned that that may be only a paro-a para-"
"A paradox," said D'Artagnan.
"Precisely; thank you! my tongue trips, I am so hot."
"My friend," said D'Artagnan, "continue your interesting description, I beg. What is that large white building with many windows?"
"Oh! that is the college of the Jesuits. Pardieu! you have an apt hand. Do you see, close to the college, a large house with steeples, turrets, built in a handsome Gothic style, as that fool, M. Getard, says?"
"Yes, that is plainly to be seen. Well?"
"Well, that is where Aramis resides."
"What! does he not reside at the episcopal palace?"
"No; that is in ruins. The palace likewise is in the city, and Aramis prefers the faubourgs. That is why, as I told you, he is partial to Saint-Patern; Saint-Patern is in the faubourg. Besides, there are in this faubourg a mall, a tennis-court, and a house of Dominicans. Look, that where the handsome steeple rises to the heavens."
"Well?"
"Next, you see the faubourg is like a separate city, it has its walls, its towers, its ditches; the quay is upon it likewise, and the boats land at the quay. If our little corsair did not draw eight feet of water, we could have come full sail up to Aramis's windows."
"Porthos, Porthos," cried D'Artagnan, "you are a well of knowledge, a spring of ingenious and profound reflections. Porthos, you no longer surprise me, you confound me."
"Here we are," said Porthos, turning the conversation with his usual modesty.
"And high time we were," thought D'Artagnan, "for Aramis's horse is melting away like a steed of ice."
They entered almost at the same instant the faubourg; but scarcely had they gone a hundred paces when they were surprised to find the streets strewed with leaves and flowers. Against the old walls of Vannes, hung the oldest and the strangest tapestries of France. From over balconies fell long white sheets stuck all over with bouquets. The streets were deserted; it was plain the entire population was assembled on one point. The blinds were closed, and the breeze penetrated into the houses under the hangings, which cast long, black shades between their places of issue and the walls. Suddenly, at the turning of a street, chants struck the ears of the newly arrived travelers. A crowd in holiday garb appeared through the vapors of incense which mounted to the heavens in blue fleeces, and clouds of rose-leaves fluttered as high as the first stories. Above all heads were to be seen the cross and banners, the sacred symbols of religion. Then, beneath these crosses and banners, as if protected by them, walked a whole world of young girls clothed in white, crowned with corn-flowers. At the two sides of the street, inclosing the cortege, marched the guards of the garrison, carrying bouquets in the barrels of their muskets and on the points of their lances. This was the procession.
Whilst D'Artagnan and Porthos were looking on with critical glances, which disguised an extreme impatience to get forward, a magnificent dais approached preceded by a hundred Jesuits and a hundred Dominicans, and escorted by two archdeacons, a treasurer, a penitent and twelve canons. A singer with a thundering voice-a man certainly picked out from all the voices of France, as was the drum-major of the imperial guard from all the giants of the empire-escorted by four other chanters, who appeared to be there only to serve him as an accompaniment, made the air resound, and the windows of the houses vibrate. Under the dais appeared a pale and noble countenance with black eyes, black hair streaked with threads of white, a delicate, compressed mouth, a prominent and angular chin. His head, full of graceful majesty, was covered with the episcopal mitre, a headdress which gave it, in addition to the character of sovereignty, that of asceticism and evangelic meditation.
"Aramis!" cried the musketeer, involuntarily, as this lofty countenance passed before him. The prelate started at the sound of the voice. He raised his large black eyes, with their long lashes, and turned them without hesitation towards the spot whence the exclamation proceeded. At a glance, he saw Porthos and D'Artagnan close to him. On his part, D'Artagnan, thanks to the keenness of his sight, had seen all, seized all. The full portrait of the prelate had entered his memory, never to leave it. One thing had particularly struck D'Artagnan. On perceiving him, Aramis had colored, then he had concentrated under his eyelids the fire of the look of the master, and the indefinable affection of the friend. It was evident that Aramis had asked himself this question: – "Why is D'Artagnan with Porthos, and what does he want at Vannes?" Aramis comprehended all that was passing in the mind of D'Artagnan, on turning his look upon him again, and seeing that he had not lowered his eyes. He knew the acuteness and intelligence of his friend; he feared to let him divine the secret of his blush and his astonishment. He was still the same Aramis, always having a secret to conceal. Therefore, to put an end to his look of an inquisitor, which it was necessary to get rid of at all events, as, at any price, a general extinguishes a battery which annoys him, Aramis stretched forth his beautiful white hand, upon which sparkled the amethyst of the pastoral ring; he cut the air with sign of the cross, and poured out his benediction upon his two friends. Perhaps thoughtful and absent, D'Artagnan, impious in spite of himself, might not have bent beneath this holy benediction; but Porthos saw his distraction, and laying his friendly hand upon the back of his companion, he crushed him down towards the earth. D'Artagnan was forced to give way; indeed, he was little short of being flat on the ground. In the meantime Aramis had passed. D'Artagnan, like Antaeus, had only touched the ground, and he turned towards Porthos, almost angry. But there was no mistaking the intention of the brave Hercules; it was a feeling of religious propriety that had influenced him. Besides, speech with Porthos, instead of disguising his thought, always completed it.
"It is very polite of him," said he, "to have given his benediction to us alone. Decidedly, he is a holy man, and a brave man." Less convinced than Porthos, D'Artagnan made no reply.
"Observe my friend," continued Porthos, "he has seen us; and, instead of continuing to walk on at the simple pace of the procession, as he did just now, – see, what a hurry he is in; do you see how the cortege is increasing its speed? He is eager to join us and embrace us, is that dear Aramis."
"That is true," replied D'Artagnan, aloud. – Then to himself: – "It is equally true he has seen me, the fox, and will have time to prepare himself to receive me."
But the procession had passed; the road was free. D'Artagnan and Porthos walked straight up to the episcopal palace, which was surrounded by a numerous crowd anxious to see the prelate return. D'Artagnan remarked that this crowd was composed principally of citizens and military men. He recognized in the nature of these partisans the address of his friend. Aramis was not the man to seek for a useless popularity. He cared very little for being beloved by people who could be of no service to him. Women, children, and old men, that is to say, the cortege of ordinary pastors; was not the cortege for him.
Ten minutes after the two friends had passed the threshold of the palace, Aramis returned like a triumphant conqueror; the soldiers presented arms to him as to a superior; the citizens bowed to him as to a friend and a patron, rather than as a head of the Church. There was something in Aramis resembling those Roman senators who had their doors always surrounded by clients. At the foot of the steps, he had a conference of half a minute with a Jesuit, who, in order to speak to him more secretly, passed his head under the dais. He then re-entered his palace; the doors closed slowly, and the crowd melted away, whilst chants and prayers were still resounding abroad. It was a magnificent day. Earthly perfumes were mingled with the perfumes of the air and the sea. The city breathed happiness, joy, and strength. D'Artagnan felt something like the presence of an invisible hand which had, all-powerfully, created this strength, this joy, this happiness, and spread everywhere these perfumes.
"Oh! oh!" said he, "Porthos has got fat; but Aramis is grown taller."
