Twenty Years After. Dumas Alexandre
as if he were looking for a crown-piece in the dust.
“Good-morning, my dear host,” cried D’Artagnan.
“Good-day to you; have you slept well?”
“Excellently, Athos, but what are you looking for? You are perhaps a tulip fancier?”
“My dear friend, if I am, you must not laugh at me for being so. In the country people alter; one gets to like, without knowing it, all those beautiful objects that God causes to spring from the earth, which are despised in cities. I was looking anxiously for some iris roots I planted here, close to this reservoir, and which some one has trampled upon this morning. These gardeners are the most careless people in the world; in bringing the horse out to the water they’ve allowed him to walk over the border.”
D’Artagnan began to smile.
“Ah! you think so, do you?”
And he took his friend along the alley, where a number of tracks like those which had trampled down the flowerbeds, were visible.
“Here are the horse’s hoofs again, it seems, Athos,” he said carelessly.
“Yes, indeed, the marks are recent.”
“Quite so,” replied the lieutenant.
“Who went out this morning?” Athos asked, uneasily. “Has any horse got loose?”
“Not likely,” answered the Gascon; “these marks are regular.”
“Where is Raoul?” asked Athos; “how is it that I have not seen him?”
“Hush!” exclaimed D’Artagnan, putting his finger on his lips; and he related what he had seen, watching Athos all the while.
“Ah, he’s gone to Blois; the poor boy-”
“Wherefore?”
“Ah, to inquire after the little La Valliere; she has sprained her foot, you know.”
“You think he has?”
“I am sure of it,” said Athos; “don’t you see that Raoul is in love?”
“Indeed! with whom-with a child seven years old?”
“Dear friend, at Raoul’s age the heart is so expansive that it must encircle one object or another, fancied or real. Well, his love is half real, half fanciful. She is the prettiest little creature in the world, with flaxen hair, blue eyes, – at once saucy and languishing.”
“But what say you to Raoul’s fancy?”
“Nothing-I laugh at Raoul; but this first desire of the heart is imperious. I remember, just at his age, how deep in love I was with a Grecian statue which our good king, then Henry IV., gave my father, insomuch that I was mad with grief when they told me that the story of Pygmalion was nothing but a fable.”
“It is mere want of occupation. You do not make Raoul work, so he takes his own way of employing himself.”
“Exactly; therefore I think of sending him away from here.”
“You will be wise to do so.”
“No doubt of it; but it will break his heart. So long as three or four years ago he used to adorn and adore his little idol, whom he will some day fall in love with in right earnest if he remains here. The parents of little La Valliere have for a long time perceived and been amused at it; now they begin to look concerned.”
“Nonsense! However, Raoul must be diverted from this fancy. Send him away or you will never make a man of him.”
“I think I shall send him to Paris.”
“So!” thought D’Artagnan, and it seemed to him that the moment for attack had arrived.
“Suppose,” he said, “we roughly chalk out a career for this young man. I wish to consult you about some thing.”
“Do so.”
“Do you think it is time for us to enter the service?”
“But are you not still in the service-you, D’Artagnan?”
“I mean active service. Our former life, has it still no attractions for you? would you not be happy to begin anew in my society and in that of Porthos, the exploits of our youth?”
“Do you propose to me to do so, D’Artagnan?”
“Decidedly and honestly.”
“On whose side?” asked Athos, fixing his clear, benevolent glance on the countenance of the Gascon.
“Ah, devil take it, you speak in earnest-”
“And must have a definite answer. Listen, D’Artagnan. There is but one person, or rather, one cause, to whom a man like me can be useful-that of the king.”
“Exactly,” answered the musketeer.
“Yes, but let us understand each other,” returned Athos, seriously. “If by the cause of the king you mean that of Monsieur de Mazarin, we do not understand each other.”
“I don’t say exactly,” answered the Gascon, confused.
“Come, D’Artagnan, don’t let us play a sidelong game; your hesitation, your evasion, tells me at once on whose side you are; for that party no one dares openly to recruit, and when people recruit for it, it is with averted eyes and humble voice.”
“Ah! my dear Athos!”
“You know that I am not alluding to you; you are the pearl of brave, bold men. I speak of that spiteful and intriguing Italian-of the pedant who has tried to put on his own head a crown which he stole from under a pillow-of the scoundrel who calls his party the party of the king-who wants to send the princes of the blood to prison, not daring to kill them, as our great cardinal-our cardinal did-of the miser, who weighs his gold pieces and keeps the clipped ones for fear, though he is rich, of losing them at play next morning-of the impudent fellow who insults the queen, as they say-so much the worse for her-and who is going in three months to make war upon us, in order that he may retain his pensions; is that the master whom you propose to me? I thank you, D’Artagnan.”
“You are more impetuous than you were,” returned D’Artagnan. “Age has warmed, not chilled your blood. Who informed you this was the master I propose to you? Devil take it,” he muttered to himself, “don’t let me betray my secrets to a man not inclined to entertain them.”
“Well, then,” said Athos, “what are your schemes? what do you propose?”
“Zounds! nothing more than natural. You live on your estate, happy in golden mediocrity. Porthos has, perhaps, sixty thousand francs income. Aramis has always fifty duchesses quarreling over the priest, as they quarreled formerly over the musketeer; but I-what have I in the world? I have worn my cuirass these twenty years, kept down in this inferior rank, without going forward or backward, hardly half living. In fact, I am dead. Well! when there is some idea of being resuscitated, you say he’s a scoundrel, an impudent fellow, a miser, a bad master! By Jove! I am of your opinion, but find me a better one or give me the means of living.”
Athos was for a few moments thoughtful.
“Good! D’Artagnan is for Mazarin,” he said to himself.
From that moment he grew very guarded.
On his side D’Artagnan became more cautious also.
“You spoke to me,” Athos resumed, “of Porthos; have you persuaded him to seek his fortune? But he has wealth, I believe, already.”
“Doubtless he has. But such is man, we always want something more than we already have.”
“What does Porthos wish for?”
“To be a baron.”
“Ah, true! I forgot,” said Athos, laughing.
“‘Tis true!” thought the Gascon, “where has he heard it? Does he correspond with Aramis? Ah! if I knew that he did I should know all.”
The conversation was interrupted by