Louise de la Valliere. Dumas Alexandre
he indicated Porthos with his hand, who bowed a second time. Louis could not withhold his admiration, though at the same time his suspicions were aroused.
“Yes,” said D’Artagnan, “but ask monsieur le baron whose assistance he had in carrying the works out?”
“Aramis’s,” said Porthos, frankly; and he pointed to the bishop.
“What the deuce does all this mean?” thought the bishop, “and what sort of a termination are we to expect to this comedy?”
“What!” exclaimed the king, “is the cardinal’s, I mean this bishop’s, name Aramis?”
“His nom de guerre,” said D’Artagnan.
“My nickname,” said Aramis.
“A truce to modesty!” exclaimed D’Artagnan; “beneath the priest’s robe, sire, is concealed the most brilliant officer, a gentleman of the most unparalleled intrepidity, and the wisest theologian in your kingdom.”
Louis raised his head. “And an engineer, also, it appears,” he said, admiring Aramis’s calm, imperturbable self-possession.
“An engineer for a particular purpose, sire,” said the latter.
“My companion in the musketeers, sire,” said D’Artagnan, with great warmth of manner, “the man who has more than a hundred times aided your father’s ministers by his advice – M. d’Herblay, in a word, who, with M. du Vallon, myself, and M. le Comte de la Fere, who is known to your majesty, formed that quartette which was a good deal talked about during the late king’s reign, and during your majesty’s minority.”
“And who fortified Belle-Isle?” the king repeated, in a significant tone.
Aramis advanced and bowed: “In order to serve the son as I served the father.”
D’Artagnan looked very narrowly at Aramis while he uttered these words, which displayed so much true respect, so much warm devotion, such entire frankness and sincerity, that even he, D’Artagnan, the eternal doubter, he, the almost infallible in judgment, was deceived by it. “A man who lies cannot speak in such a tone as that,” he said.
Louis was overcome by it. “In that case,” he said to Fouquet, who anxiously awaited the result of this proof, “the cardinal’s hat is promised. Monsieur d’Herblay, I pledge you my honor that the first promotion shall be yours. Thank M. Fouquet for it.” Colbert overheard these words; they stung him to the quick, and he left the salon abruptly. “And you, Monsieur du Vallon,” said the king, “what have you to ask? I am truly pleased to have it in my power to acknowledge the services of those who were faithful to my father.”
“Sire – ” began Porthos, but he was unable to proceed with what he was going to say.
“Sire,” exclaimed D’Artagnan, “this worthy gentleman is utterly overpowered by your majesty’s presence, he who so valiantly sustained the looks and the fire of a thousand foes. But, knowing what his thoughts are, I – who am more accustomed to gaze upon the sun – can translate them: he needs nothing, absolutely nothing; his sole desire is to have the happiness of gazing upon your majesty for a quarter of an hour.”
“You shall sup with me this evening,” said the king, saluting Porthos with a gracious smile.
Porthos became crimson from delight and pride. The king dismissed him, and D’Artagnan pushed him into the adjoining apartment, after he had embraced him warmly.
“Sit next to me at table,” said Porthos in his ear.
“Yes, my friend.”
“Aramis is annoyed with me, I think.”
“Aramis has never liked you so much as he does now. Fancy, it was I who was the means of his getting the cardinal’s hat.”
“Of course,” said Porthos. “By the by, does the king like his guests to eat much at his table?”
“It is a compliment to himself if you do,” said D’Artagnan, “for he himself possesses a royal appetite.”
Chapter IX. Explanations
Aramis cleverly managed to effect a diversion for the purpose of finding D’Artagnan and Porthos. He came up to the latter, behind one of the columns, and, as he pressed his hand, said, “So you have escaped from my prison?”
“Do not scold him,” said D’Artagnan; “it was I, dear Aramis, who set him free.”
“Ah! my friend,” replied Aramis, looking at Porthos, “could you not have waited with a little more patience?”
D’Artagnan came to the assistance of Porthos, who already began to breathe hard, in sore perplexity.
“You see, you members of the Church are great politicians; we mere soldiers come at once to the point. The facts are these: I went to pay Baisemeaux a visit – ”
Aramis pricked up his ears at this announcement.
“Stay!” said Porthos; “you make me remember that I have a letter from Baisemeaux for you, Aramis.” And Porthos held out the bishop the letter we have already seen. Aramis begged to be allowed to read it, and read it without D’Artagnan feeling in the slightest degree embarrassed by the circumstance that he was so well acquainted with the contents of it. Besides, Aramis’s face was so impenetrable, that D’Artagnan could not but admire him more than ever; after he had read it, he put the letter into his pocket with the calmest possible air.
“You were saying, captain?” he observed.
“I was saying,” continued the musketeer, “that I had gone to pay Baisemeaux a visit on his majesty’s service.”
“On his majesty’s service?” said Aramis.
“Yes,” said D’Artagnan, “and, naturally enough, we talked about you and our friends. I must say that Baisemeaux received me coldly; so I soon took my leave of him. As I was returning, a soldier accosted me, and said (no doubt as he recognized me, notwithstanding I was in private clothes), ‘Captain, will you be good enough to read me the name written on this envelope?’ and I read, ‘To Monsieur du Vallon, at M. Fouquet’s house, Saint-Mande.’ The deuce, I said to myself, Porthos has not returned, then, as I fancied, to Bell-Isle, or to Pierrefonds, but is at M. Fouquet’s house, at Saint-Mande; and as M. Fouquet is not at Saint-Mande, Porthos must be quite alone, or, at all events, with Aramis; I will go and see Porthos, and I accordingly went to see Porthos.”
“Very good,” said Aramis, thoughtfully.
“You never told me that,” said Porthos.
“I had no time, my friend.”
“And you brought back Porthos with you to Fontainebleau?”
“Yes, to Planchet’s house.”
“Does Planchet live at Fontainebleau?” inquired Aramis.
“Yes, near the cemetery,” said Porthos, thoughtlessly.
“What do you mean by ‘near the cemetery?’” said Aramis, suspiciously.
“Come,” thought the musketeer, “since there is to be a squabble, let us take advantage of it.”
“Yes, the cemetery,” said Porthos. “Planchet is a very excellent fellow, who makes very excellent preserves; but his house has windows which look out upon the cemetery. And a confoundedly melancholy prospect it is! So this morning – ”
“This morning?” said Aramis, more and more excited.
D’Artagnan turned his back to them, and walked to the window, where he began to play a march upon one of the panes of glass.
“Yes, this morning we saw a man buried there.”
“Ah!”
“Very depressing, was it not? I should never be able to live in a house where burials can always be seen from the window. D’Artagnan, on the contrary, seems to like it very much.”
“So D’Artagnan saw