Александр Дюма
Twenty Years After
53. How D’Artagnan and Porthos earned by selling Straw
Mazarin was desirous of setting out instantly for Saint Germain, but the queen declared that she should wait for the people whom she had appointed to meet her. However, she offered the cardinal Laporte’s place, which he accepted and went from one carriage to the other.
It was not without foundation that a report of the king’s intention to leave Paris by night had been circulated. Ten or twelve persons had been in the secret since six o’clock, and howsoever great their prudence might be, they could not issue the necessary orders for the departure without suspicion being generated. Besides, each individual had one or two others for whom he was interested; and as there could be no doubt but that the queen was leaving Paris full of terrible projects of vengeance, every one had warned parents and friends of what was about to transpire; so that the news of the approaching exit ran like a train of lighted gunpowder along the streets.
The first carriage which arrived after that of the queen was that of the Prince de Conde, with the princess and dowager princess. Both these ladies had been awakened in the middle of the night and did not know what it all was about. The second contained the Duke and Duchess of Orleans, the tall young Mademoiselle and the Abbe de la Riviere; and the third, the Duke de Longueville and the Prince de Conti, brother and brother-in-law of Conde. They all alighted and hastened to pay their respects to the king and queen in their coach. The queen fixed her eyes upon the carriage they had left, and seeing that it was empty, she said:
“But where is Madame de Longueville?”
“Ah, yes, where is my sister?” asked the prince.
“Madame de Longueville is ill,” said the duke, “and she desired me to excuse her to your majesty.”
Anne gave a quick glance to Mazarin, who answered by an almost imperceptible shake of his head.
“What do you say of this?” asked the queen.
“I say that she is a hostage for the Parisians,” answered the cardinal.
“Why is she not come?” asked the prince in a low voice, addressing his brother.
“Silence,” whispered the duke, “she has her reasons.”
“She will ruin us!” returned the prince.
“She will save us,” said Conti.
Carriages now arrived in crowds; those of the Marechal de Villeroy, Guitant, Villequier and Comminges came into the line. The two musketeers arrived in their turn, holding the horses of D’Artagnan and Porthos in their hands. These two instantly mounted, the coachman of the latter replacing D’Artagnan on the coach-box of the royal coach. Mousqueton took the place of the coachman, and drove standing, for reasons known to himself, like Automedon of antiquity.
The queen, though occupied by a thousand details, tried to catch the Gascon’s eye; but he, with his wonted prudence, had mingled with the crowd.
“Let us be the avant guard,” said he to Porthos, “and find good quarters at Saint Germain; nobody will think of us, and for my part I am greatly fatigued.”
“As for me,” replied Porthos, “I am falling asleep, which is strange, considering we have not had any fighting; truly the Parisians are idiots.”
“Or rather, we are very clever,” said D’Artagnan.
“Perhaps.”
“And how is your wrist?”
“Better; but do you think that we’ve got them this time?”
“Got what?”
“You your command, and I my title?”
“I’faith! yes-I should expect so; besides, if they forget, I shall take the liberty of reminding them.”
“The queen’s voice! she is speaking,” said Porthos; “I think she wants to ride on horseback.”
“Oh, she would like it, but-”
“But what?”
“The cardinal won’t allow it. Gentlemen,” he said, addressing the two musketeers, “accompany the royal carriage, we are going forward to look for lodgings.”
D’Artagnan started off for Saint Germain, followed by Porthos.
“We will go on, gentlemen,” said the queen.
And the royal carriage drove on, followed by the other coaches and about fifty horsemen.
They reached Saint German without any accident; on descending, the queen found the prince awaiting her, bare-headed, to offer her his hand.
“What an awakening for the Parisians!” said the queen, radiant.
“It is war,” said the prince.
“Well, then, let it be war! Have we not on our side the conqueror of Rocroy, of Nordlingen, of Lens?”
The prince bowed low.
It was then three o’clock in the morning. The queen walked first, every one followed her. About two hundred persons had accompanied her in her flight.
“Gentlemen,” said the queen, laughing, “pray take up your abode in the chateau; it is large, and there will be no want of room for you all; but, as we never thought of coming here, I am informed that there are, in all, only three beds in the whole establishment, one for the king, one for me-”
“And one for the cardinal,” muttered the prince.
“Am I-am I, then, to sleep on the floor?” asked Gaston d’Orleans, with a forced smile.
“No, my prince,” replied Mazarin, “the third bed is intended for your highness.”
“But your eminence?” replied the prince.
“I,” answered Mazarin, “I shall not sleep at all; I have work to do.”
Gaston desired that he should be shown into the room wherein he was to sleep, without in the least concerning himself as to where his wife and daughter were to repose.
“Well, for my part, I shall go to bed,” said D’Artagnan; “come, Porthos.”
Porthos followed the lieutenant with that profound confidence he ever had in the wisdom of his friend. They walked from one end of the chateau to the other, Porthos looking with wondering eyes at D’Artagnan, who was counting on his fingers.
“Four hundred, at a pistole each, four hundred pistoles.”
“Yes,” interposed Porthos, “four hundred pistoles; but who is to make four hundred pistoles?”
“A pistole is not enough,” said D’Artagnan, “‘tis worth a louis.”
“What is worth a louis?”
“Four hundred, at a louis each, make four hundred louis.”
“Four hundred?” said Porthos.
“Yes, there are two hundred of them, and each of them will need two, which will make four hundred.”
“But four hundred what?”
“Listen!” cried D’Artagnan.
But as there were all kinds of people about, who were in a state of stupefaction at the unexpected arrival of the court, he whispered in his friend’s ear.
“I understand,” answered Porthos, “I understand you perfectly, on my honor; two hundred louis, each of us, would be making a pretty thing of it; but what will people say?”
“Let them say what they will; besides, how will they know that we are doing it?”
“But who will distribute these things?” asked Porthos.
“Isn’t Mousqueton there?”
“But he wears my livery; my livery will be known,” replied Porthos.
“He can turn his coat inside out.”
“You are always in the right, my dear friend,” cried Porthos; “but where the devil do you discover all the notions you put into practice?”
D’Artagnan smiled. The two friends turned down the first street they came to. Porthos knocked at the door of a house to the right, whilst D’Artagnan knocked at the door of a house to the left.
“Some straw,” they said.
“Sir, we don’t keep any,” was the reply of the people who opened the doors; “but please ask at the hay dealer’s.”
“Where is the hay dealer’s?”
“At the last large door in the street.”
“Are there any other people in Saint Germain who sell straw?”
“Yes; there’s the landlord of the Lamb, and Gros-Louis the farmer; they both live in the Rue des Ursulines.”
“Very well.”
D’Artagnan went instantly to the hay dealer and bargained with him for a hundred and fifty trusses of straw, which he obtained, at the rate of three pistoles each. He went afterward to the innkeeper and bought from him two hundred trusses at the same price. Finally, Farmer Louis sold them eighty trusses, making in all four hundred and thirty.
There was no more to be had in Saint Germain. This foraging did not occupy more than half an hour. Mousqueton, duly instructed, was put at the head of this sudden and new business. He was cautioned not to let a bit of straw out of his hands under a louis the truss, and they intrusted to him straw to the amount of four hundred and thirty louis. D’Artagnan, taking with him three trusses of straw, returned to the chateau, where everybody, freezing with cold and more than half asleep, envied the king, the queen, and the Duke of Orleans, on their camp beds. The lieutenant’s entrance produced a burst of laughter in the great drawing-room; but he did not appear to notice that he was the object of general attention, but began to arrange, with so much cleverness, nicety and gayety, his straw bed, that the mouths of all these poor creatures, who could not go to sleep, began to water.
“Straw!” they all cried out, “straw! where is there any to be found?”
“I can show you,” answered the Gascon.
And he conducted them to Mousqueton, who freely distributed the trusses at the rate of a louis apiece. It was thought rather dear, but people wanted to sleep, and who would not give even two or three louis for a few hours of sound sleep?
D’Artagnan gave up his bed to any one who wanted it, making it over about a dozen times; and since he was supposed to have paid, like the others, a louis for his truss of straw, he pocketed in that way thirty louis in less than half an hour. At five o’clock in the morning the straw was worth eighty francs a truss and there was no more to be had.
D’Artagnan had taken the precaution to set apart four trusses for his own use. He put in his pocket the key of the room where he had hidden them, and accompanied by Porthos returned to settle with Mousqueton, who, naively, and like the worthy steward that he was, handed them four hundred and thirty louis and kept one hundred for himself.
Mousqueton, who knew nothing of what was going on in the chateau, wondered that the idea had not occurred to him sooner. D’Artagnan put the gold in his hat, and in going back to the chateau settled the reckoning with Porthos, each of them had cleared two hundred and fifteen louis.
Porthos, however, found that he had no straw left for himself. He returned to Mousqueton, but the steward had sold the last wisp. He then repaired to D’Artagnan, who, thanks to his four trusses of straw, was in the act of making up and tasting, by anticipation, the luxury of a bed so soft, so well stuffed at the head, so well covered at the foot, that it would have excited the envy of the king himself, if his majesty had not been fast asleep in his own. D’Artagnan could on no account consent to pull his bed to pieces again for Porthos, but for a consideration of four louis that the latter paid him for it, he consented that Porthos should share his couch with him. He laid his sword at the head, his pistols by his side, stretched his cloak over his feet, placed his felt hat on the top of his cloak and extended himself luxuriously on the straw, which rustled under him. He was already enjoying the sweet dream engendered by the possession of two hundred and nineteen louis, made in a quarter of an hour, when a voice was heard at the door of the hall, which made him stir.
“Monsieur d’Artagnan!” it cried.
“Here!” cried Porthos, “here!”
Porthos foresaw that if D’Artagnan was called away he should remain the sole possessor of the bed. An officer approached.
“I am come to fetch you, Monsieur d’Artagnan.”
“From whom?”
“His eminence sent me.”
“Tell my lord that I’m going to sleep, and I advise him, as a friend, to do the same.”
“His eminence is not gone to bed and will not go to bed, and wants you instantly.”
“The devil take Mazarin, who does not know when to sleep at the proper time. What does he want with me? Is it to make me a captain? In that case I will forgive him.”
And the musketeer rose, grumbling, took his sword, hat, pistols, and cloak, and followed the officer, whilst Porthos, alone and sole possessor of the bed, endeavored to follow the good example of falling asleep, which his predecessor had set him.
“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said the cardinal, on perceiving him, “I have not forgotten with what zeal you have served me. I am going to prove to you that I have not.”
“Good,” thought the Gascon, “this is a promising beginning.”
“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” he resumed, “do you wish to become a captain?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And your friend still longs to be made a baron?”
“At this very moment, my lord, he no doubt dreams that he is one already.”
“Then,” said Mazarin, taking from his portfolio the letter which he had already shown D’Artagnan, “take this dispatch and carry it to England.”
D’Artagnan looked at the envelope; there was no address on it.
“Am I not to know to whom to present it?”
“You will know when you reach London; at London you may tear off the outer envelope.”
“And what are my instructions?”
“To obey in every particular the man to whom this letter is addressed. You must set out for Boulogne. At the Royal Arms of England you will find a young gentleman named Mordaunt.”
“Yes, my lord; and what am I to do with this young gentleman?”
“Follow wherever he leads you.”
D’Artagnan looked at the cardinal with a stupefied air.
“There are your instructions,” said Mazarin; “go!”
“Go! ‘tis easy to say so, but that requires money, and I haven’t any.”
“Ah!” replied Mazarin, “so you have no money?”
“None, my lord.”
“But the diamond I gave you yesterday?”
“I wish to keep it in remembrance of your eminence.”
Mazarin sighed.
“‘Tis very dear living in England, my lord, especially as envoy extraordinary.”
“Zounds!” replied Mazarin, “the people there are very sedate, and their habits, since the revolution, simple; but no matter.”
He opened a drawer and took out a purse.
“What do you say to a thousand crowns?”
D’Artagnan pouted out his lower lip in a most extraordinary manner.
“I reply, my lord, ‘tis but little, as certainly I shall not go alone.”
“I suppose not. Monsieur du Vallon, that worthy gentleman, for, with the exception of yourself, Monsieur d’Artagnan, there’s not a man in France that I esteem and love so much as him-”
“Then, my lord,” replied D’Artagnan, pointing to the purse which Mazarin still held, “if you love and esteem him so much, you-understand me?”
“Be it so! on his account I add two hundred crowns.”
“Scoundrel!” muttered D’Artagnan. “But on our return,” he said aloud, “may we, that is, my friend and I, depend on having, he his barony, and I my promotion?”
“On the honor of Mazarin.”
“I should like another sort of oath better,” said D’Artagnan to himself; then aloud, “May I not offer my duty to her majesty the queen?”
“Her majesty is asleep and you must set off directly,” replied Mazarin; “go, pray, sir-”
“One word more, my lord; if there’s any fighting where I’m going, must I fight?”
“You are to obey the commands of the personage to whom I have addressed the inclosed letter.”
“‘Tis well,” said D’Artagnan, holding out his hand to receive the money. “I offer my best respects and services to you, my lord.”
D’Artagnan then, returning to the officer, said:
“Sir, have the kindness also to awaken Monsieur du Vallon and to say ‘tis by his eminence’s order, and that I shall await him at the stables.”
The officer went off with an eagerness that showed the Gascon that he had some personal interest in the matter.
Porthos was snoring most musically when some one touched him on the shoulder.
“I come from the cardinal,” said the officer.
“Heigho!” said Porthos, opening his large eyes; “what have you got to say?”
“That his eminence has ordered you to England and that Monsieur d’Artagnan is waiting for you in the stables.”
Porthos sighed heavily, arose, took his hat, his pistols, and his cloak, and departed, casting a look of regret upon the couch where he had hoped to sleep so well.
No sooner had he turned his back than the officer laid himself down in it, and he had scarcely crossed the threshold before his successor, in his turn, was snoring immoderately. It was very natural, he being the only person in the whole assemblage, except the king, the queen, and the Duke of Orleans, who slept gratuitously.
54. In which we hear Tidings of Aramis
D’Artagnan went straight to the stables; day was just dawning. He found his horse and that of Porthos fastened to the manger, but to an empty manger. He took pity on these poor animals and went to a corner of the stable, where he saw a little straw, but in doing so he struck his foot against a human body, which uttered a cry and arose on its knees, rubbing its eyes. It was Mousqueton, who, having no straw to lie upon, had helped himself to that of the horses.
“Mousqueton,” cried D’Artagnan, “let us be off! Let us set off.”
Mousqueton, recognizing the voice of his master’s friend, got up suddenly, and in doing so let fall some louis which he had appropriated to himself illegally during the night.
“Ho! ho!” exclaimed D’Artagnan, picking up a louis and displaying it; “here’s a louis that smells confoundedly of straw.”
Mousqueton blushed so confusedly that the Gascon began to laugh at him and said:
“Porthos would be angry, my dear Monsieur Mousqueton, but I pardon you, only let us remember that this gold must serve us as a joke, so be gay-come along.”
Mousqueton instantly assumed a jovial countenance, saddled the horses quickly and mounted his own without making faces over it.
Whilst this went on, Porthos arrived with a very cross look on his face, and was astonished to find the lieutenant resigned and Mousqueton almost merry.
“Ah, that’s it!” he cried, “you have your promotion and I my barony.”
“We are going to fetch our brevets,” said D’Artagnan, “and when we come back, Master Mazarin will sign them.”
“And where are we going?” asked Porthos.
“To Paris first; I have affairs to settle.”
And they both set out for Paris.
On arriving at its gates they were astounded to see the threatening aspect of the capital. Around a broken-down carriage the people were uttering imprecations, whilst the persons who had attempted to escape were made prisoners-that is to say, an old man and two women. On the other hand, as the two friends approached to enter, they showed them every kind of civility, thinking them deserters from the royal party and wishing to bind them to their own.
“What is the king doing?” they asked.
“He is asleep.”
“And the Spanish woman?”
“Dreaming.”
“And the cursed Italian?”
“He is awake, so keep on the watch, as they are gone away; it’s for some purpose, rely on it. But as you are the strongest, after all,” continued D’Artagnan, “don’t be furious with old men and women, and keep your wrath for more appropriate occasions.”
The people listened to these words and let go the ladies, who thanked D’Artagnan with an eloquent look.
“Now! onward!” cried the Gascon.
And they continued their way, crossing the barricades, getting the chains about their legs, pushed about, questioning and questioned.
In the place of the Palais Royal D’Artagnan saw a sergeant, who was drilling six or seven hundred citizens. It was Planchet, who brought into play profitably the recollections of the regiment of Piedmont.
In passing before D’Artagnan he recognized his former master.
“Good-day, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said Planchet proudly.
“Good-day, Monsieur Dulaurier,” replied D’Artagnan.
Planchet stopped short, staring at D’Artagnan. The first row, seeing their sergeant stop, stopped in their turn, and so on to the very last.
“These citizens are dreadfully ridiculous,” observed D’Artagnan to Porthos and went on his way.
Five minutes afterward he entered the hotel of La Chevrette, where pretty Madeleine, the hostess, came to him.
“My dear Mistress Turquaine,” said the Gascon, “if you happen to have any money, lock it up quickly; if you happen to have any jewels, hide them directly; if you happen to have any debtors, make them pay you, or any creditors, don’t pay them.”
“Why, prithee?” asked Madeleine.
“Because Paris is going to be reduced to dust and ashes like Babylon, of which you have no doubt heard tell.”
“And are you going to leave me at such a time?”
“This very instant.”
“And where are you going?”
“Ah, if you could tell me that, you would be doing me a service.”
“Ah, me! ah, me!
“Have you any letters for me?” inquired D’Artagnan, wishing to signify to the hostess that her lamentations were superfluous and that therefore she had better spare him demonstrations of her grief.
“There’s one just arrived,” and she handed the letter to D’Artagnan.
“From Athos!” cried D’Artagnan, recognizing the handwriting.
“Ah!” said Porthos, “let us hear what he says.”
D’Artagnan opened the letter and read as follows:
“Dear D’Artagnan, dear Du Vallon, my good friends, perhaps this may be the last time that you will ever hear from me. Aramis and I are very unhappy; but God, our courage, and the remembrance of our friendship sustain us. Think often of Raoul. I intrust to you certain papers which are at Blois; and in two months and a half, if you do not hear of us, take possession of them.
“Embrace, with all your heart, the vicomte, for your devoted, friend,
“ATHOS.”
“I believe, by Heaven,” said D’Artagnan, “that I shall embrace him, since he’s upon our road; and if he is so unfortunate as to lose our dear Athos, from that very day he becomes my son.”
“And I,” said Porthos, “shall make him my sole heir.”
“Let us see, what more does Athos say?”
“Should you meet on your journey a certain Monsieur Mordaunt, distrust him, in a letter I cannot say more.”
“Monsieur Mordaunt!” exclaimed the Gascon, surprised.
“Monsieur Mordaunt! ‘tis well,” said Porthos, “we shall remember that; but see, there is a postscript from Aramis.”
“So there is,” said D’Artagnan, and he read:
“We conceal the place where we are, dear friends, knowing your brotherly affection and that you would come and die with us were we to reveal it.”
“Confound it,” interrupted Porthos, with an explosion of passion which sent Mousqueton to the other end of the room; “are they in danger of dying?”
D’Artagnan continued:
“Athos bequeaths to you Raoul, and I bequeath to you my revenge. If by any good luck you lay your hand on a certain man named Mordaunt, tell Porthos to take him into a corner and to wring his neck. I dare not say more in a letter.
“ARAMIS.”
“If that is all, it is easily done,” said Porthos.
“On the contrary,” observed D’Artagnan, with a vexed look; “it would be impossible.”
“How so?”
“It is precisely this Monsieur Mordaunt whom we are going to join at Boulogne and with whom we cross to England.”
“Well, suppose instead of joining this Monsieur Mordaunt we were to go and join our friends?” said Porthos, with a gesture fierce enough to have frightened an army.
“I did think of it, but this letter has neither date nor postmark.”
“True,” said Porthos. And he began to wander about the room like a man beside himself, gesticulating and half drawing his sword out of the scabbard.
As to D’Artagnan, he remained standing like a man in consternation, with the deepest affliction depicted on his face.
“Ah, this is not right; Athos insults us; he wishes to die alone; it is bad, bad, bad.”
Mousqueton, witnessing this despair, melted into tears in a corner of the room.
“Come,” said D’Artagnan, “all this leads to nothing. Let us go on. We will embrace Raoul, and perhaps he will have news of Athos.”
“Stop-an idea!” cried Porthos; “indeed, my dear D’Artagnan, I don’t know how you manage, but you are always full of ideas; let us go and embrace Raoul.”
“Woe to that man who should happen to contradict my master at this moment,” said Mousqueton to himself; “I wouldn’t give a farthing for his life.”
They set out. On arriving at the Rue Saint Denis, the friends found a vast concourse of people. It was the Duc de Beaufort, who was coming from the Vendomois and whom the coadjutor was showing to the Parisians, intoxicated with joy. With the duke’s aid they already considered themselves invincible.
The two friends turned off into a side street to avoid meeting the prince, and so reached the Saint Denis gate.
“Is it true,” said the guard to the two cavaliers, “that the Duc de Beaufort has arrived in Paris?”
“Nothing more certain; and the best proof of it is,” said D’Artagnan, “that he has dispatched us to meet the Duc de Vendome, his father, who is coming in his turn.”
“Long live De Beaufort!” cried the guards, and they drew back respectfully to let the two friends pass. Once across the barriers these two knew neither fatigue nor fear. Their horses flew, and they never ceased speaking of Athos and Aramis.
The camp had entered Saint Omer; the friends made a little detour and went to the camp, and gave the army an exact account of the flight of the king and queen. They found Raoul near his tent, reclining on a truss of hay, of which his horse stole some mouthfuls; the young man’s eyes were red and he seemed dejected. The Marechal de Grammont and the Comte de Guiche had returned to Paris and he was quite lonely. And as soon as he saw the two cavaliers he ran to them with open arms.
“Oh, is it you, dear friends? Did you come here to fetch me? Will you take me away with you? Do you bring me tidings of my guardian?”
“Have you not received any?” said D’Artagnan to the youth.
“Alas! sir, no, and I do not know what has become of him; so that I am really so unhappy that I weep.”
In fact, tears rolled down his cheeks.
Porthos turned aside, in order not to show by his honest round face what was passing in his mind.
“Deuce take it!” cried D’Artagnan, more moved than he had been for a long time, “don’t despair, my friend, if you have not received any letters from the count, we have received one.”
“Oh, really!” cried Raoul.
“And a comforting one, too,” added D’Artagnan, seeing the delight that his intelligence gave the young man.
“Have you it?” asked Raoul
“Yes-that is, I had it,” repined the Gascon, making believe to find it. “Wait, it ought to be there in my pocket; it speaks of his return, does it not, Porthos?”
All Gascon as he was, D’Artagnan could not bear alone the weight of that falsehood.
“Yes,” replied Porthos, coughing.
“Eh, give it to me!” said the young man.
“Eh! I read it a little while since. Can I have lost it? Ah! confound it! yes, my pocket has a hole in it.”
“Oh, yes, Monsieur Raoul!” said Mousqueton, “the letter was very consoling. These gentlemen read it to me and I wept for joy.”
“But at any rate, you know where he is, Monsieur d’Artagnan?” asked Raoul, somewhat comforted.
“Ah! that’s the thing!” replied the Gascon. “Undoubtedly I know it, but it is a mystery.”
“Not to me, I hope?”
“No, not to you, so I am going to tell you where he is.”
Porthos devoured D’Artagnan with wondering eyes.
“Where the devil shall I say that he is, so that he cannot try to rejoin him?” thought D’Artagnan.
“Well, where is he, sir?” asked Raoul, in a soft and coaxing voice.
“He is at Constantinople.”
“Among the Turks!” exclaimed Raoul, alarmed. “Good heavens! how can you tell me that?”
“Does that alarm you?” cried D’Artagnan. “Pooh! what are the Turks to such men as the Comte de la Fere and the Abbe d’Herblay?”
“Ah, his friend is with him?” said Raoul. “That comforts me a little.”
“Has he wit or not-this demon D’Artagnan?” said Porthos, astonished at his friend’s deception.
“Now, sir,” said D’Artagnan, wishing to change the conversation, “here are fifty pistoles that the count has sent you by the same courier. I suppose you have no more money and that they will be welcome.”
“I have still twenty pistoles, sir.”
“Well, take them; that makes seventy.”
“And if you wish for more,” said Porthos, putting his hand to his pocket-
“Thank you, sir,” replied Raoul, blushing; “thank you a thousand times.”
At this moment Olivain appeared. “Apropos,” said D’Artagnan, loud enough for the servant to hear him, “are you satisfied with Olivain?”
“Yes, in some respects, tolerably well.”
Olivain pretended to have heard nothing and entered the tent.
“What fault do you find with the fellow?”
“He is a glutton.”
“Oh, sir!” cried Olivain, reappearing at this accusation.
“And a little bit of a thief.”
“Oh, sir! oh!”
“And, more especially, a notorious coward.”
“Oh, oh! sir! you really vilify me!” cried Olivain.
“The deuce!” cried D’Artagnan. “Pray learn, Monsieur Olivain, that people like us are not to be served by cowards. Rob your master, eat his sweetmeats, and drink his wine; but, by Jove! don’t be a coward, or I shall cut off your ears. Look at Monsieur Mouston, see the honorable wounds he has received, observe how his habitual valor has given dignity to his countenance.”
Mousqueton was in the third heaven and would have embraced D’Artagnan had he dared; meanwhile he resolved to sacrifice his life for him on the next occasion that presented itself.
“Send away that fellow, Raoul,” said the Gascon; “for if he’s a coward he will disgrace thee some day.”
“Monsieur says I am coward,” cried Olivain, “because he wanted the other day to fight a cornet in Grammont’s regiment and I refused to accompany him.”
“Monsieur Olivain, a lackey ought never to disobey,” said D’Artagnan, sternly; then taking him aside, he whispered to him: “Thou hast done right; thy master was in the wrong; here’s a crown for thee, but should he ever be insulted and thou dost not let thyself be cut in quarters for him, I will cut out thy tongue. Remember that.”
Olivain bowed and slipped the crown into his pocket.
“And now, Raoul,” said the Gascon, “Monsieur du Vallon and I are going away as ambassadors, where, I know not; but should you want anything, write to Madame Turquaine, at La Chevrette, Rue Tiquetonne and draw upon her purse as on a banker-with economy; for it is not so well filled as that of Monsieur d’Emery.”
And having, meantime, embraced his ward, he passed him into the robust arms of Porthos, who lifted him up from the ground and held him a moment suspended near the noble heart of the formidable giant.
“Come,” said D’Artagnan, “let us go.”
And they set out for Boulogne, where toward evening they arrived, their horses flecked with foam and dark with perspiration.
At ten steps from the place where they halted was a young man in black, who seemed waiting for some one, and who, from the moment he saw them enter the town, never took his eyes off them.
D’Artagnan approached him, and seeing him stare so fixedly, said:
