Ten Years Later

by Alexandre Dumas

  When D'Artagnan had perfectly convinced himself that the absence ofthe Vicar-General d'Herblay was real, and that his friend was not to befound at Melun or in its vicinity, he left Bazin without regret, castan ill-natured glance at the magnificent Chateau de Vaux which wasbeginning to shine with that splendor which brought on its ruin, and,compressing his lips like a man full of mistrust and suspicion, he putspurs to his pied horse, saying, "Well, well! I have still Pierrefondsleft, 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 ofPierrefonds. D'Artagnan came by the way of Nanteuil-le-Hardouin andCrepy. 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 wallstwenty feet in thickness, and a hundred in height.

  D'Artagnan rode slowly past its walls, measured its towers with his eyeand descended into the valley. From afar he looked down upon the chateauof Porthos, situated on the shores of a small lake, and contiguous to amagnificent forest. It was the same place we have already had the honorof describing to our readers; we shall therefore satisfy ourselves withnaming it. The first thing D'Artagnan perceived after the fine trees,the May sun gilding the sides of the green hills, the long rows offeather-topped trees which stretched out towards Compiegne, was a largerolling box, pushed forward by two servants and dragged by two others.In this box there was an enormous green-and-gold thing, which went alongthe smiling glades of the park, thus dragged and pushed. This thing,at a distance, could not be distinguished, and signified absolutelynothing; nearer, it was a hogshead muffled in gold-bound green cloth;when close, it was a man, or rather a poussa, the interior extremity ofwhom, spreading over the interior of the box, entirely filled it, whenstill closer, the man was Mousqueton--Mousqueton, with gray hair and aface 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 tothe lackeys who pushed and dragged him. The box stopped, and the fourlackeys, with a precision quite military, took off their laced hats andranged themselves behind it.

  "Oh, Monsieur d'Artagnan!" said Mousqueton, "why can I not embrace yourknees? 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 heartyas 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," saidMousqueton, with a sigh; "I have always done what I could for my poorbody; I am not selfish." And Mousqueton sighed afresh.

  "I wonder whether Mousqueton wants to be a baron, too, as he sighs afterthat fashion?" thought D'Artagnan.

  "Mon Dieu, monsieur!" said Mousqueton, as if rousing himself from apainful reverie; "how happy monseigneur will be that you have thought ofhim!"

  "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 amunfortunate. 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 wroteto monseigneur----"

  "Indeed!"

  "A letter, monsieur, such a pressing letter that it threw us all into abustle."

  "Tell me all about it, my dear friend." said D'Artagnan; "but removethese people a little further off first."

  Mousqueton shouted, "Fall back, you fellows," with such powerful lungsthat the breath, without the words, would have been sufficient todisperse the four lackeys. D'Artagnan seated himself on the shaft ofthe box and opened his ears. "Monsieur," said Mousqueton, "monseigneur,then, received a letter from M. le Vicaire-General d'Herblay, eight ornine days ago; it was the day of the rustic pleasures, yes, it must havebeen Wednesday."

  "What do you mean?" said D'Artagnan. "The day of rustic pleasures?"

  "Yes, monsieur; we have so many pleasures to take in this delightfulcountry, that we were encumbered by them; so much so, that we have beenforced to regulate the distribution of them."

  "How easily do I recognize Porthos's love of order in that! Now, thatidea would never have occurred to me; but then I am not encumbered withpleasures."

  "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 dearMousqueton, that it is really a pleasure to hear you."

  "It is true," said Mousqueton, with a sigh of satisfaction, whichemanated evidently from the justice which had been rendered him, "it istrue I have made great progress in the company of monseigneur."

  "I am waiting for the distribution of the pleasures, Mousqueton, andwith impatience. I want to know if I have arrived on a lucky day."

  "Oh, Monsieur d'Artagnan," said Mousqueton in a melancholy tone, "sincemonseigneur'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 thebread-offering, and has discourses and instructions made to him by hisalmoner-in-ordinary. That is not very amusing, but we expect a Carmelitefrom 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 almoneralways sends us to sleep. These are Sunday religious pleasures. OnMonday, worldly pleasures."

  "Ah, ah!" said D'Artagnan, "what do you mean by that? Let us have aglimpse at your worldly pleasures."

  "Monsieur, on Monday we go into the world; we pay and receive visits, weplay on the lute, we dance, we make verses, and burn a little incense inhonor of the ladies."

  "Peste! that is the height of gallantry," said the musketeer, who wasobliged to call to his aid all the strength of his facial muscles tosuppress an enormous inclination to laugh.

  "Tuesday, learned pleasures."

  "Good!" cried D'Artagnan. "What are they? Detail them, my dearMousqueton."

  "Monseigneur has bought a sphere or globe, which I shall show you; itfills all the perimeter of the great tower, except a gallery which hehas had built over the sphere: there are little strings and brass wiresto which the sun and moon are hooked. It all turns; and that is verybeautiful. Monseigneur points out to me seas and distant countries. Wedon't intend to visit them, but it is very interesting."

  "Interesting! yes, that's the word," repeated D'Artagnan. "AndWednesday?"

  "Rustic pleasures, as I have had the honor to te
ll you, monsieur lechevalier. We look over monseigneur's sheep and goats; we make theshepherds dance to pipes and reeds, as is written in a book monseigneurhas in his library, which is called 'Bergeries.' The author died about amonth ago."

  "Monsieur Racan, perhaps," said D'Artagnan.

  "Yes, that was his name--M. Racan. But that is not all: we angle inthe little canal, after which we dine, crowned with flowers. That isWednesday."

  "Peste!" said D'Artagnan, "you don't divide your pleasures badly. AndThursday?--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 gettogether all monseigneur's young vassals, and we make them throw thedisc, 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 hedoes deal a blow, oh, that proves a misfortune!"

  "How so?"

  "Yes, monsieur, we were obliged to renounce the cestus. He crackedheads; he broke jaws--beat in ribs. It was charming sport; but nobodywas willing to play with him."

  "Then his wrist----"

  "Oh, monsieur, firmer than ever. Monseigneur gets a trifle weaker in hislegs,--he confesses that himself; but his strength has all taken refugein his arms, so that----"

  "So that he can knock down bullocks, as he used formerly."

  "Monsieur, better than that--he beats in walls. Lately, afterhaving supped with one of our farmers--you know how popular and kindmonseigneur is--after supper as a joke, he struck the wall a blow. Thewall crumbled away beneath his hand, the roof fell in, and three men andan old woman were stifled."

  "Good God, Mousqueton! And your master?"

  "Oh, monseigneur, a little skin was rubbed off his head. We bathed thewounds with some water which the monks gave us. But there was nothingthe 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 wasspent in that way."

  "Then pass on to Friday," said D'Artagnan.

  "Friday, noble and warlike pleasures. We hunt, we fence, we dressfalcons and break horses. Then, Saturday is the day for intellectualpleasures: we adorn our minds; we look at monseigneur's pictures andstatues; we write, even, and trace plans: and then we fire monseigneur'scannon."

  "You draw plans, and fire cannon?"

  "Yes, monsieur."

  "Why, my friend," said D'Artagnan, "M. du Vallon, in truth, possessesthe most subtle and amiable mind that I know. But there is one kind ofpleasure 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 everyday."

  "My brave Mousqueton," resumed D'Artagnan, "pardon me, but I was soabsorbed in your charming recital that I have forgotten theprincipal object of our conversation, which was to learn what M. leVicaire-General d'Herblay could have to write to your master about."

  "That is true, monsieur," said Mousqueton; "the pleasures have misledus. 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 recognizedthe 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, ifyou 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 outthe very same day with his secretary, in order to endeavor to arrive intime."

  "And did he arrive in time?"

  "I hope so. Monseigneur, who is hasty, as you know, monsieur, repeatedincessantly, 'Tonno Dieu! What can this mean? The Equinox? Never mind, afellow must be well mounted to arrive before I do.'"

  "And you think Porthos will have arrived first, do you?" askedD'Artagnan.

  "I am sure of it. This Equinox, however rich he may be, has certainly nohorses so good as monseigneur's."

  D'Artagnan repressed his inclination to laugh, because the brevity ofAramis's letter gave rise to reflection. He followed Mousqueton, orrather Mousqueton's chariot, to the castle. He sat down to a sumptuoustable, of which they did him the honors as to a king. But he could drawnothing from Mousqueton,--the faithful servant seemed to shed tears atwill, but that was all.

  D'Artagnan, after a night passed in an excellent bed, reflected muchupon the meaning of Aramis's letter; puzzled himself as to the relationof the Equinox with the affairs of Porthos; and being unable to makeanything out unless it concerned some amour of the bishop's, for whichit was necessary that the days and nights should be equal, D'Artagnanleft Pierrefonds as he had left Melun, as he had left the chateau of theComte de la Fere. It was not, however, without a melancholy, which mightin 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 eachside of his horse, and said to himself, in that vague sort of reveriewhich ascends sometimes to the sublimest eloquence:

  "No more friends! no more future! no more anything! My energies arebroken like the bonds of our ancient friendship. Oh, old age is coming,cold and inexorable; it envelops in its funereal crape all that wasbrilliant, all that was embalming in my youth; then it throws that sweetburthen on its shoulders and carries it away with the rest into thefathomless gulf of death."

  A shudder crept through the heart of the Gascon, so brave and so strongagainst all the misfortunes of life; and during some moments the cloudsappeared black to him, the earth slippery and full of pits as that ofcemeteries.

  "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 atonce. And he clapped spurs to his horse, who, having found nothingmelancholy in the heavy oats of Pierrefonds profited by this permissionto 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. Hehad devoted six days to this journey.

  CHAPTER 19. What D'Artagnan went to Paris for