Ten Years Later

by Alexandre Dumas

  It was perhaps the fiftieth time since the day on which we open thishistory, that this man, with a heart of bronze and muscles of steel, hadleft house and friends, everything, in short, to go in search of fortuneand death. The one--that is to say, death--had constantly retreatedbefore him, as if afraid of him; the other--that is to say, fortune--fora month past only had really made an alliance with him. Although hewas not a great philosopher, after the fashion of either Epicurusor Socrates, he was a powerful spirit, having knowledge of life, andendowed with thought. No one is as brave, as adventurous, or as skillfulas D'Artagnan, without being at the same time inclined to be a dreamer.He had picked up, here and there, some scraps of M. de la Rochefoucauld,worthy of being translated into Latin by MM. de Port Royal, and he hadmade a collection, en passant, in the society of Athos and Aramis, ofmany morsels of Seneca and Cicero, translated by them, and applied tothe uses of common life. That contempt of riches which our Gascon hadobserved as an article of faith during the thirty-five first yearsof his life, had for a long time been considered by him as the firstarticle of the code of bravery. "Article first," said he, "A man isbrave because he has nothing. A man has nothing because he despisesriches." Therefore, with these principles, which, as we have said hadregulated the thirty-five first years of his life, D'Artagnan was nosooner possessed of riches, than he felt it necessary to ask himself if,in spite of his riches, he were still brave. To this, for any otherbut D'Artagnan, the events of the Place de Greve might have served asa reply. Many consciences would have been satisfied with them, butD'Artagnan was brave enough to ask himself sincerely and conscientiouslyif he were brave. Therefore to this:--

  "But it appears to me that I drew promptly enough and cut and thrustpretty freely on the Place de Greve to be satisfied of my bravery,"D'Artagnan had himself replied. "Gently, captain, that is not an answer.I was brave that day, because they were burning my house, and thereare a hundred, and even a thousand, to speak against one, that if thosegentlemen of the riots had not formed that unlucky idea, their plan ofattack would have succeeded, or, at least, it would not have been I whowould have opposed myself to it. Now, what will be brought against me? Ihave no house to be burnt in Bretagne; I have no treasure there thatcan be taken from me.--No; but I have my skin; that precious skin of M.d'Artagnan, which to him is worth more than all the houses and all thetreasures of the world. That skin to which I cling above everything,because it is, everything considered, the binding of a body whichencloses a heart very warm and ready to fight, and, consequently, tolive. Then, I do desire to live; and, in reality, I live much better,more completely, since I have become rich. Who the devil ever said thatmoney spoiled life! Upon my soul, it is no such thing; on the contrary,it seems as if I absorbed a double quantity of air and sun. Mordioux!what will it be then, if I double that fortune, and if, instead ofthe switch I now hold in my hand, I should ever carry the baton of amarechal? Then I really don't know if there will be, from that momentenough of air and sun for me. In fact, this is not a dream, who thedevil would oppose it, if the king made me a marechal, as his father,King Louis XIII., made a duke and constable of Albert de Luynes? Am Inot as brave, and much more intelligent, than that imbecile De Vitry?Ah! that's exactly what will prevent my advancement: I have too muchwit. Luckily, if there is any justice in this world, fortune owes memany compensations. She owes me certainly a recompense for all I did forAnne of Austria, and an indemnification for all she has not done for me.Then, at the present, I am very well with a king, and with a king whohas the appearance of determining to reign. May God keep him in thatillustrious road! For, if he is resolved to reign he will want me; andif he wants me, he will give me what he has promised me--warmth andlight; so that I march, comparatively, now, as I marched formerly,--fromnothing to everything. Only the nothing of to-day is the all of formerdays; there has only this little change taken place in my life. Andnow let us see! let us take the part of the heart, as I just now wasspeaking of it. But in truth, I only spoke of it from memory." And theGascon applied his hand to his breast, as if he were actually seekingthe place where his heart was.

  "Ah! wretch!" murmured he, smiling with bitterness. "Ah! poor mortalspecies! You hoped, for an instant, that you had not a heart, and nowyou find you have one--bad courtier as thou art,--and even one of themost seditious. You have a heart which speaks to you in favor of M.Fouquet. And what is M. Fouquet, when the king is in question?--Aconspirator, a real conspirator, who did not even give himself thetrouble to conceal his being a conspirator; therefore, what a weaponwould you not have against him, if his good grace and his intelligencehad not made a scabbard for that weapon. An armed revolt!--for, in fact,M. Fouquet has been guilty of an armed revolt. Thus, while the kingvaguely suspects M. Fouquet of rebellion, I know it--I could provethat M. Fouquet had caused the shedding of the blood of his majesty'ssubjects. Now, then, let us see? Knowing all that, and holding mytongue, what further would this heart wish in return for a kind actionof M. Fouquet's, for an advance of fifteen thousand livres, for adiamond worth a thousand pistoles, for a smile in which there was asmuch bitterness as kindness?--I save his life."

  "Now, then, I hope," continued the musketeer, "that this imbecile ofa heart is going to preserve silence, and so be fairly quits with M.Fouquet. Now, then, the king becomes my sun, and as my heart is quitswith M. Fouquet, let him beware who places himself between me and mysun! Forward, for his majesty Louis XIV.!--Forward!"

  These reflections were the only impediments which were able to retardthe progress of D'Artagnan. These reflections once made, he increasedthe speed of his horse. But, however perfect his horse Zephyr mightbe, it could not hold out at such a pace forever. The day after hisdeparture from Paris, he was left at Chartres, at the house of an oldfriend D'Artagnan had met with in an hotelier of that city. From thatmoment the musketeer travelled on post-horses. Thanks to this modeof locomotion, he traversed the space separating Chartres fromChateaubriand. In the last of these two cities, far enough from thecoast to prevent any one guessing that D'Artagnan wished to reach thesea--far enough from Paris to prevent all suspicion of his being amessenger from Louis XIV., whom D'Artagnan had called his sun, withoutsuspecting that he who was only at present a rather poor star in theheaven of royalty, would, one day, make that star his emblem; themessenger of Louis XIV., we say, quitted the post and purchased a bidetof the meanest appearance,--one of those animals which an officer ofcavalry would never choose, for fear of being disgraced. Exceptingthe color, this new acquisition recalled to the mind of D'Artagnan thefamous orange-colored horse, with which, or rather upon which, he hadmade his first appearance in the world. Truth to say, from the momenthe crossed this new steed, it was no longer D'Artagnan who wastravelling,--it was a good man clothed in an iron-gray justaucorps,brown haut-de-chausses, holding the medium between a priest and alayman; that which brought him nearest to the churchman was, thatD'Artagnan had placed on his head a calotte of threadbare velvet, andover the calotte, a large black hat; no more sword, a stick, hung by acord to his wrist, but to which, he promised himself, as an unexpectedauxiliary, to join, upon occasion, a good dagger, ten inches long,concealed under his cloak. The bidet purchased at Chateaubriandcompleted the metamorphosis; it was called, or rather D'Artagnan calledit, Furet (ferret).

  "If I have changed Zephyr into Furet," said D'Artagnan, "I must makesome diminutive or other of my own name. So, instead of D'Artagnan, Iwill be Agnan, short; that is a concession which I naturally owe to mygray coat, my round hat, and my rusty calotte."

  Monsieur D'Artagnan traveled, then, pretty easily upon Furet, whoambled like a true butter-woman's pad, and who, with his amble, managedcheerfully about twelve leagues a day, upon four spindle-shanks, ofwhich the practiced eye of D'Artagnan had appreciated the strength andsafety beneath the thick mass of hair which covered them. Joggingalong, the traveler took notes, studied the country, which he traversedreserved and silent, ever seeking the most plausible pretext forreaching Belle-Isle-en-Mer, and for seeing everything without arousingsuspici
on. In this manner, he was enabled to convince himself of theimportance the event assumed in proportion as he drew near to it. Inthis remote country, in this ancient duchy of Bretagne, which was notFrance at that period, and is not so even now, the people knew nothingof the king of France. They not only did not know him, but wereunwilling to know him. One face--a single one--floated visibly for themupon the political current. Their ancient dukes no longer ruled them;government was a void--nothing more. In place of the sovereign duke,the seigneurs of parishes reigned without control; and, above theseseigneurs, God, who has never been forgotten in Bretagne. Among thesesuzerains of chateaux and belfries, the most powerful, the richest, andthe most popular, was M. Fouquet, seigneur of Belle-Isle. Even inthe country, even within sight of that mysterious isle, legends andtraditions consecrate its wonders. Every one might not penetrate it: theisle, of an extent of six leagues in length, and six in breadth, wasa seignorial property, which the people had for a long time respected,covered as it was with the name of Retz, so redoubtable in thecountry. Shortly after the erection of this seignory into a marquisate,Belle-Isle passed to M. Fouquet. The celebrity of the isle did not datefrom yesterday; its name, or rather its qualification, is traced back tothe remotest antiquity. The ancients called it Kalonese, from two Greekwords, signifying beautiful isle. Thus at a distance of eighteen hundredyears, it had borne, in another idiom, the same name it still bears.There was, then, something in itself in this property of M. Fouquet's,besides its position of six leagues off the coast of France; a positionwhich makes it a sovereign in its maritime solitude, like a majesticship which disdains roads, and proudly casts anchor in mid-ocean.

  D'Artagnan learnt all this without appearing the least in the worldastonished. He also learnt that the best way to get intelligence was togo to La Roche-Bernard, a tolerably important city at the mouth ofthe Vilaine. Perhaps there he could embark; if not, crossing thesalt marshes, he would repair to Guerande-en-Croisic, to wait for anopportunity to cross over to Belle-Isle. He had discovered, besides,since his departure from Chateaubriand, that nothing would be impossiblefor Furet under the impulsion of M. Agnan, and nothing to M. Agnanthrough the initiative of Furet. He prepared, then, to sup off a tealand a tourteau, in a hotel of La Roche-Bernard, and ordered to bebrought from the cellar, to wash down these two Breton dishes, somecider, which, the moment it touched his lips, he perceived to be moreBreton still.

  CHAPTER 67. How D'Artagnan became acquainted with a Poet, who had turnedPrinter for the sake of printing his own Verses