CHAPTER 18
In which D'Artagnan seeks Porthos, and only finds Mousqueton
When D'Artagnan had perfectly convinced himself that the
absence of the Vicar-General d'Herblay was real, and that
his friend was not to be found at Melun or in its vicinity,
he left Bazin without regret, cast an ill-natured glance at
the magnificent Chateau de Vaux which was beginning to shine
with that splendor which brought on its ruin, and,
compressing his lips like a man full of mistrust and
suspicion, he put spurs to his pied horse, saying, "Well,
well! I have still Pierrefonds left, and there I shall find
the best man and the best filled coffer. And that is all I
want, for I have an idea of my own."
We will spare our readers the prosaic incidents of
D'Artagnan's journey, which terminated on the morning of the
third day within sight of Pierrefonds. D'Artagnan came by
the way of Nanteuil-le-Hardouin and Crepy. At a distance he
perceived the Castle of Louis of Orleans, which, having
become part of the crown domain, was kept by an old
concierge. This was one of those marvelous manors of the
middle ages, with walls twenty feet in thickness, and a
hundred in height.
D'Artagnan rode slowly past its walls, measured its towers
with his eye and descended into the valley. From afar he
looked down upon the chateau of Porthos, situated on the
shores of a small lake, and contiguous to a magnificent
forest. It was the same place we have already had the honor
of describing to our readers; we shall therefore satisfy
ourselves with naming it. The first thing D'Artagnan
perceived after the fine trees, the May sun gilding the
sides of the green hills, the long rows of feather-topped
trees which stretched out towards Compiegne, was a large
rolling box, pushed forward by two servants and dragged by
two others. In this box there was an enormous green-and-gold
thing, which went along the smiling glades of the park, thus
dragged and pushed. This thing, at a distance, could not be
distinguished, and signified absolutely nothing; nearer, it
was a hogshead muffled in gold-bound green cloth; when
close, it was a man, or rather a poussa, the interior
extremity of whom, spreading over the interior of the box,
entirely filled it, when still closer, the man was
Mousqueton -- Mousqueton, with gray hair and a face as red
as Punchinello's.
"Pardieu!" cried D'Artagnan; "why, that's my dear Monsieur
Mousqueton!"
"Ah!" cried the fat man -- "ah! what happiness! what joy!
There's M. d'Artagnan. Stop, you rascals!" These last words
were addressed to the lackeys who pushed and dragged him.
The box stopped, and the four lackeys, with a precision
quite military, took off their laced hats and ranged
themselves behind it.
"Oh, Monsieur d'Artagnan!" said Mousqueton, "why can I not
embrace your knees? But I have become impotent, as you see."
"Dame! my dear Mousqueton, it is age."
"No, monsieur, it is not age; it is infirmities --
troubles."
"Troubles! you, Mousqueton?" said D'Artagnan making the tour
of the box; "are you out of your mind, my dear friend? Thank
God! you are as hearty as a three-hundred-year-old oak."
"Ah! but my legs, monsieur, my legs!" groaned the faithful
servant.
"What's the matter with your legs?"
"Oh, they will no longer bear me!"
"Ah, the ungrateful things! And yet you feed them well,
Mousqueton, apparently."
"Alas, yes! They can reproach me with nothing in that
respect," said Mousqueton, with a sigh; "I have always done
what I could for my poor body; I am not selfish." And
Mousqueton sighed afresh.
"I wonder whether Mousqueton wants to be a baron, too, as he
sighs after that fashion?" thought D'Artagnan.
"Mon Dieu, monsieur!" said Mousqueton, as if rousing himself
from a painful reverie; "how happy monseigneur will be that
you have thought of him!"
"Kind Porthos!" cried D'Artagnan, "I am anxious to embrace
him."
"Oh!" said Mousqueton, much affected, "I shall certainly
write to him."
"What!" cried D'Artagnan, "you will write to him?"
"This very day; I shall not delay it an hour."
"Is he not here, then?"
"No, monsieur."
"But is he near at hand? -- is he far off?"
"Oh, can I tell, monsieur, can I tell?"
"Mordioux!" cried the musketeer, stamping with his foot, "I
am unfortunate. Porthos such a stay-at-home!"
"Monsieur, there is not a more sedentary man than
monseigneur, but ---- "
"But what?"
"When a friend presses you ---- "
"A friend?"
"Doubtless -- the worthy M. d'Herblay."
"What, has Aramis pressed Porthos?"
"This is how the thing happened, Monsieur d'Artagnan. M.
d'Herblay wrote to monseigneur ---- "
"Indeed!"
"A letter, monsieur, such a pressing letter that it threw us
all into a bustle."
"Tell me all about it, my dear friend." said D'Artagnan;
"but remove these people a little further off first."
Mousqueton shouted, "Fall back, you fellows," with such
powerful lungs that the breath, without the words, would
have been sufficient to disperse the four lackeys.
D'Artagnan seated himself on the shaft of the box and opened
his ears. "Monsieur," said Mousqueton, "monseigneur, then,
received a letter from M. le Vicaire-General d'Herblay,
eight or nine days ago; it was the day of the rustic
pleasures, yes, it must have been Wednesday."
"What do you mean?" said D'Artagnan. "The day of rustic
pleasures?"
"Yes, monsieur; we have so many pleasures to take in this
delightful country, that we were encumbered by them; so much
so, that we have been forced to regulate the distribution of
them."
"How easily do I recognize Porthos's love of order in that!
Now, that idea would never have occurred to me; but then I
am not encumbered with pleasures."
"We were, though," said Mousqueton.
"And how did you regulate the matter, let me know?" said
D'Artagnan.
"It is rather long, monsieur."
"Never mind, we have plenty of time; and you speak so well,
my dear Mousqueton, that it is really a pleasure to hear
you."
"It is true," said Mousqueton, with a sigh of satisfaction,
which emanated evidently from the justice which had been
rendered him, "it is true I have made great progress in the
company of monseigneur."
"I am waiting for the distribution of the pleasures,
Mousqueton, and with impatience. I want to know if I have
arrived on a lucky day."
"Oh, Monsieur d'Artagnan," said Mousqueton in a melancholy
tone, "since monseigneur's departure all the pleasures have
gone too!"
"Well, my dear Mousqueton, refresh your memory."
"With what day shall I begin?"
"Eh, pardieux! begin with Sunday; that is the Lord's day."
"Sunday, monsieur?"
"Yes."
"Sunday pleasures are religious: monseigneur goes to mass,
makes the bread-offering, and has discourses and
instructions made to him by his almoner-in-ordinary. That is
not very amusing, but we expect a Carmelite from Paris who
will do the duty of our almonry, and who, we are assured,
speaks very well, which will keep us awake, whereas our
present almoner always sends us to sleep. These are Sunday
religious pleasures. On Monday, worldly pleasures."
"Ah, ah!" said D'Artagnan, "what do you mean by that? Let us
have a glimpse at your worldly pleasures."
"Monsieur, on Monday we go into the world; we pay and
receive visits, we play on the lute, we dance, we make
verses, and burn a little incense in honor of the ladies."
"Peste! that is the height of gallantry," said the
musketeer, who was obliged to call to his aid all the
strength of his facial muscles to suppress an enormous
inclination to laugh.
"Tuesday, learned pleasures."
"Good!" cried D'Artagnan. "What are they? Detail them, my
dear Mousqueton."
"Monseigneur has bought a sphere or globe, which I shall
show you; it fills all the perimeter of the great tower,
except a gallery which he has had built over the sphere:
there are little strings and brass wires to which the sun
and moon are hooked. It all turns; and that is very
beautiful. Monseigneur points out to me seas and distant
countries. We don't intend to visit them, but it is very
interesting."
"Interesting! yes, that's the word," repeated D'Artagnan.
"And Wednesday?"
"Rustic pleasures, as I have had the honor to tell you,
monsieur le chevalier. We look over monseigneur's sheep and
goats; we make the shepherds dance to pipes and reeds, as is
written in a book monseigneur has in his library, which is
called `Bergeries.' The author died about a month ago."
"Monsieur Racan, perhaps," said D'Artagnan,
"Yes, that was his name -- M. Racan. But that is not all: we
angle in the little canal, after which we dine, crowned with
flowers. That is Wednesday."
"Peste!" said D'Artagnan, "you don't divide your pleasures
badly. And Thursday? -- what can be left for poor Thursday?"
"It is not very unfortunate, monsieur," said Mousqueton,
smiling. "Thursday, Olympian pleasures. Ah, monsieur, that
is superb! We get together all monseigneur's young vassals,
and we make them throw the disc, wrestle, and run races.
Monseigneur can't run now, no more can I; but monseigneur
throws the disc as nobody else can throw it. And when he
does deal a blow, oh, that proves a misfortune!"
"How so?"
"Yes, monsieur, we were obliged to renounce the cestus. He
cracked heads; he broke jaws -- beat in ribs. It was
charming sport; but nobody was willing to play with him."
"Then his wrist ---- "
"Oh, monsieur, firmer than ever. Monseigneur gets a trifle
weaker in his legs, -- he confesses that himself; but his
strength has all taken refuge in his arms, so that ---- "
"So that he can knock down bullocks, as he used formerly."
"Monsieur, better than that -- he beats in walls. Lately,
after having supped with one of our farmers -- you know how
popular and kind monseigneur is -- after supper as a joke,
he struck the wall a blow. The wall crumbled away beneath
his hand, the roof fell in, and three men and an old woman
were stifled."
"Good God, Mousqueton! And your master?"
"Oh, monseigneur, a little skin was rubbed off his head. We
bathed the wounds with some water which the monks gave us.
But there was nothing the matter with his hand."
"Nothing?"
"No, nothing, monsieur."
"Deuce take the Olympic pleasures! They must cost your
master too dear, for widows and orphans ---- "
"They all had pensions, monsieur; a tenth of monseigneur's
revenue was spent in that way."
"Then pass on to Friday," said D'Artagnan.
"Friday, noble and warlike pleasures. We hunt, we fence, we
dress falcons and break horses. Then, Saturday is the day
for intellectual pleasures: we adorn our minds; we look at
monseigneur's pictures and statues; we write, even, and
trace plans: and then we fire monseigneur's cannon."
"You draw plans, and fire cannon?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"Why, my friend," said D'Artagnan, "M. du Vallon, in truth,
possesses the most subtle and amiable mind that I know. But
there is one kind of pleasure you have forgotten, it appears
to me."
"What is that, monsieur?" asked Mousqueton, with anxiety.
"The material pleasures."
Mousqueton colored. "What do you mean by that, monsieur?"
said he, casting down his eyes.
"I mean the table -- good wine -- evenings occupied in
passing the bottle."
"Ah, monsieur, we don't reckon those pleasures, -- we
practice them every day."
"My brave Mousqueton," resumed D'Artagnan, "pardon me, but I
was so absorbed in your charming recital that I have
forgotten the principal object of our conversation, which
was to learn what M. le Vicaire-General d'Herblay could have
to write to your master about."
"That is true, monsieur," said Mousqueton; "the pleasures
have misled us. Well, monsieur, this is the whole affair."
"I am all attention, Mousqueton."
"On Wednesday ---- "
"The day of the rustic pleasures?"
"Yes -- a letter arrived; he received it from my hands. I
had recognized the writing."
"Well?"
"Monseigneur read it and cried out, `Quick, my horses! my
arms!'"
"Oh, good Lord! then it was for some duel?" said D'Artagnan.
"No, monsieur, there were only these words: `Dear Porthos,
set out, if you would wish to arrive before the Equinox. I
expect you.'"
"Mordioux!" said D'Artagnan, thoughtfully, "that was
pressing, apparently."
"I think so; therefore," continued Mousqueton, "monseigneur
set out the very same day with his secretary, in order to
endeavor to arrive in time."
"And did he arrive in time?"
"I hope so. Monseigneur, who is hasty, as you know,
monsieur, repeated incessantly, `Tonno Dieu! What can this
mean? The Equinox? Never mind, a fellow must be well mounted
to arrive before I do.'"
"And you think Porthos will have arrived first, do you?"
asked D'Artagnan.
"I am sure of it. This Equinox, however rich he may be, has
certainly no horses so good as monseigneur's."
D'Artagnan repressed his inclination to laugh, because the
brevity of Aramis's letter gave rise to reflection. He
followed Mousqueton, or rather Mousqueton's chariot, to the
castle. He sat down to a sumptuous table, of which they did
him the honors as to a king. But he could draw nothing from
Mousqueton, -- the faithful servant seemed to shed tears at
will, but that was all.
D'Artagnan, after a night passed in an excellent bed,
reflected much upon the meaning of Aramis's letter; puzzled
himself as to the relation of the Equinox with the affairs
of Porthos; and being unable to make anything out unless it
concerned some amour of the bishop's, for which it was
necessary that the days and nights should be equal,
D'Artagnan left Pierrefonds as he had left Melun, as he had
left the chateau of the Comte de la Fere. It was not,
however, without a melancholy, which might in good sooth
pass for one of the most dismal of D'Artagnan's moods. His
head cast down, his eyes fixed, he suffered his legs to hang
on each side of his horse, and said to himself, in that
vague sort of reverie which ascends sometimes to the
sublimest eloquence:
"No more friends! no more future! no more anything! My
energies are broken like the bonds of our ancient
friendship. Oh, old age is coming, cold and inexorable; it
envelops in its funereal crape all that was brilliant, all
that was embalming in my youth; then it throws that sweet
burthen on its shoulders and carries it away with the rest
into the fathomless gulf of death."
A shudder crept through the heart of the Gascon, so brave
and so strong against all the misfortunes of life; and
during some moments the clouds appeared black to him, the
earth slippery and full of pits as that of cemeteries.
"Whither am I going?" said he to himself. "What am I going
to do! Alone, quite alone -- without family, without
friends! Bah!" cried he all at once. And he clapped spurs to
his horse, who, having found nothing melancholy in the heavy
oats of Pierrefonds profited by this permission to show his
gayety in a gallop which absorbed two leagues. "To Paris!"
said D'Artagnan to himself. And on the morrow he alighted in
Paris. He had devoted six days to this journey.
