We’ll spare our readers the mundane events of d’Artagnan’s travels, which, going by way of Nanteuil-le-Haudouin and Crépy, reached Pierrefonds on the morning of the third day. From a distance, he saw the old castle of King Louis XII, a domain of the Crown looked after by an old concierge. It was one of those marvelous fortified manors of the Middle Ages surrounded by walls twenty feet thick and a hundred feet tall.
D’Artagnan surveyed those walls, measured the towers with his eyes, and then rode down into the valley beyond. In the distance loomed Porthos’s château, situated on the banks of a broad pond and in front of a magnificent forest. It was Pierrefonds, the same estate we’ve already had the honor to describe to our readers elsewhere, so we’ll just content ourselves here with naming it.
After the beautiful trees, with the May sun gilding the green hillsides sloping away toward Compiègne, the first thing d’Artagnan saw was a sort of rolling wooden box drawn by two lackeys and pushed by two others. Within this rolling box was some huge green and gold thing being pushed and pulled through the park’s smiling glades. From a distance, this thing was unidentifiable; when he got closer, it appeared to be a great barrel wrapped in gold-trimmed green fabric; and then at last he could make out that it was a man, or rather a man-sized wobble toy, whose wide lower half expanded to fill the rolling box. This man, in fact, was Mousqueton,61 but a Mousqueton grown immense, with gray hair and a face as red as Punchinello’s.
“By God!” cried d’Artagnan. “It’s that dear Monsieur Mousqueton!”
“What?” cried the fat man. “Oh, what happiness! What joy! It’s Monsieur d’Artagnan! Stop, you rascals!”
These last words were addressed to the lackeys pushing and pulling him. The vehicle came to a halt and the four lackeys, with military precision, doffed their braided hats and lined up behind the box.
“Oh, Monsieur d’Artagnan!” said Mousqueton. “I’d embrace you on my knees, but I’ve become sadly immobile, as you see.”
“Dame, dear Mousqueton, age strikes us all.”
“No, Monsieur, it isn’t age, it’s infirmity and affliction.”
“Infirm, Mousqueton? You?” said d’Artagnan, looking him over as he took a turn around the box. “Are you crazy, old friend? You’re as strong as a three-hundred-year-old oak tree, thank God!”
“Ah, but my legs, Monsieur, my legs!” said the faithful servant.
“What about your legs?”
“They don’t want to carry me anymore.”
“What ingrates! And you’ve always fed them so well, Mousqueton.”
“Yes, they have nothing to complain about in that regard,” said Mousqueton with a sigh. “I’ve always given my body everything it asked for; I’m not selfish.” And Mousqueton sighed anew.
Does Mousqueton sigh this way because he wishes he, too, were a baron? thought d’Artagnan.
“My God, Monsieur!” said Mousqueton, recovering from his sad reverie. “How glad monseigneur will be that you’ve thought of him.”
“Good old Porthos!” said d’Artagnan. “I’m eager to embrace him.”
“Oh!” said Mousqueton, clearly moved. “I’ll be sure to tell him that when I write to him, Monsieur.”
“What?” cried d’Artagnan. “Why write to him?”
“Because I must. This very day, without delay.”
“Isn’t he here?”
“Mais non, Monsieur.”
“Is he nearby? Has he gone far?”
“I wish I knew, Monsieur,” said Mousqueton.
“God’s death!” cried the musketeer, stamping his foot. “Must I lose every hand? But Porthos is such a homebody!”
“No one more so than monseigneur. However…”
“However, what?”
“When a friend beckons…”
“A friend?”
“But yes! The worthy Monsieur d’Herblay.”
“It was Aramis who called for Porthos?”
“This was how it happened, Monsieur d’Artagnan. Monsieur d’Herblay wrote to monseigneur…”
“He did?”
“Indeed, Monsieur, a letter so urgent it knocked everything for a loop!”
“Tell me about that, dear friend,” said d’Artagnan, “but first, send these fellows out of earshot.”
Mousqueton thundered, “Begone, rascals!” so powerfully that without the words, the breath alone would have been enough to blow the four lackeys away.
D’Artagnan sat down on the shaft of Mousqueton’s chariot and opened his ears. “Monsieur,” said Mousqueton, “monseigneur received a letter from Bishop d’Herblay eight or nine days ago; it was on our day of rustic diversions, which makes it the Wednesday before last.”
“What’s that?” said d’Artagnan. “The day of rustic diversions?”
“Yes, Monsieur; we have so many diversions out here in the country that it overwhelmed us, so we were forced to organize them into a schedule.”
“Now there I recognize the style of Porthos! Such a thing would never have occurred to me. Though it’s true I’ve never been overwhelmed by too many diversions.”
“Well, we were,” said Mousqueton.
“So, how did you organize them?” asked d’Artagnan.
“That’s rather complicated, Monsieur.”
“No matter, we have plenty of time, and you speak so well, dear Mousqueton, that it’s a pleasure to listen to you.”
“It’s quite true,” said Mousqueton, gratified at having his virtues recognized, “that I’ve learned a lot in my time with monseigneur.”
“I await the schedule of diversions, Mousqueton, and with impatience, for I want to know if I’ve come on a good day.”
“Alas, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said Mousqueton sadly, “but since monseigneur’s departure, the diversions have been suspended.”
“Well, then, Mousqueton, tell me how it used to be.”
“What day should I start with?”
“Pardieu, what do I care? Start with Sunday, that’s the Lord’s day.”
“With Sunday, Monsieur?”
“Yes.”
“Sunday is devoted to religion: monseigneur goes to Mass, offers the blessed bread, hears sermons and has discussions with our household almoner. This isn’t very diverting, but we’re expecting a Carmelite from Paris to take over our almonry, an eloquent speaker, or so we’ve heard. Hopefully that will wake us up because our current chaplain puts us to sleep. So that’s Sunday, religious diversions. On Monday, worldly diversions.”
“Oh ho!” said d’Artagnan. “And what do you place in that category, Mousqueton? Let’s hear about the worldly diversions!”
“Monsieur, on Monday we socialize; we receive and pay visits, we play the lute and dance, we make rhymes, and burn a little incense in honor of the ladies.”
“Peste! That is the height of gallantry,” said the musketeer, summoning all the strength in his jaw muscles to keep from smiling.
“On Tuesday, diversions of learning.”
“Oh, good!” said d’Artagnan. “Such as? Give us some details, my dear Mousqueton.”
“Monseigneur has bought a globe that I’ll show you; it fills the whole tower room, except for a gallery he had built around the top, and has a small sun and moon hanging from strings and brass wires. It rotates and is very beautiful. Monseigneur points out distant seas and countries to me; we have no plans to go to them, but it’s very interesting.”
“Interesting—yes, that’s the word,” repeated d’Artagnan. “And on Wednesday?”
“Rustic diversions, as I’ve already had the honor to tell you, Monsieur le Chevalier. We review monseigneur’s sheep and goats, and we have the shepherdesses play pipes and dance with torches, as is described in a book in monseigneur’s library called Bergeries. I think the author died just last month.”
“Monsieur Racan,62 maybe?” said d’Artagnan.
“That’s right, Monsieur Racan. But that’s not all: we go fishing in the little canal and then we dine wearing crowns of flowers. And t
hat’s Wednesday.”
“Plague take me, Wednesday doesn’t sound bad at all,” said d’Artagnan. “And Thursday? What diversions are left for poor Thursday?”
“Plenty, Monsieur,” said Mousqueton, smiling. “Thursday we have Olympic diversions. Ah, Monsieur, it’s superb! We have all monseigneur’s young vassals come and race, wrestle, and throw the discus. Nobody throws the discus like monseigneur, and when he delivers a punch, oh, what a shame!”
“A shame? Really?”
“Yes, Monsieur—I’m afraid we had to give up punching with the cestus. He broke too many heads, jaws, and ribs. It’s a lovely sport, but nobody wanted to play anymore.”
“So, his wrist…”
“Is as strong as ever, Monsieur! These days monseigneur is a little weaker in the legs, as he himself admits, but his strength has all gone into his arms, so that…”
“So that he’s still strong enough to knock out an ox.”
“Better than that, Monsieur, he knocks down walls. Recently, after having dined with one of his farmers—he’s so popular with his people—after dinner as a joke he punched the wall, the wall collapsed, the roof fell in, and three men and an old woman were crushed.”
“Good lord, Mousqueton! And your master?”
“Oh, monseigneur just got a few scratches on his head. We bathed his wounds in some wine the nuns gave us. But there was nothing wrong with his hand.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing, Monsieur.”
“Devil take the Olympic diversions! They must cost him dearly, because the poor widows and orphans…”
“They get their pensions, Monsieur. A tenth of monseigneur’s fortune has gone that way.”
“Let’s move on to Friday,” said d’Artagnan.
“Friday’s diversions are noble and warlike. We hunt, we make weapons, we train falcons and tame horses. Then, Saturday is for intellectual pursuits: we test our wits, we admire monseigneur’s pictures and statues, we even write a little and draw up plans—and then we fire monseigneur’s cannon.”
“You draw plans and then fire cannons…”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“Truly, mon ami,” said d’Artagnan, “Monsieur du Vallon possesses the most subtle and flexible mind I know. There’s only one kind of diversion he’s overlooked, it seems to me.”
“What’s that, Monsieur?” asked Mousqueton anxiously.
“The fleshly diversions.”
Mousqueton blushed. “What do you mean by that, Monsieur?” he said, looking down in embarrassment.
“I mean the delights of the table, of good wine and an evening spent emptying the bottle.”
“Oh, Monsieur, those diversions don’t count because we pursue them every day.”
“My brave Mousqueton,” replied d’Artagnan, “forgive me, but I’ve been so absorbed in your account of diversions, I forgot the main point of our conversation, which was to learn what our Vicar General d’Herblay had written to your master.”
“That’s true, Monsieur, we got distracted by the diversions,” said Mousqueton. “Well, Monsieur, I’ll tell you the whole thing.”
“I’m listening, my dear Mousqueton.”
“Wednesday…”
“The day of rustic diversions?”
“Yes. A letter came, and I brought it to him with my own hands, for I recognized the writing.”
“Well?”
“Monseigneur read it and cried, ‘Quick, my horses! My arms!’ ”
“My God!” said d’Artagnan. “It must have been a duel!”
“No, Monsieur, it contained just these words: ‘Dear Porthos, depart now if you want to get here before the Equinox. I await you.’ ”
“Mordioux!” said d’Artagnan thoughtfully. “That does sound urgent.”
“That’s what I thought. Anyway,” continued Mousqueton, “monseigneur left the same day, with his steward, hoping to arrive in time.”
“And did he arrive in time?”
“I hope so. Monseigneur, who can be excitable, as you know, Monsieur, kept saying, ‘Thunder of God! Who is this Equinox? No matter, he’ll have to have some mighty fine horses to arrive before I do!’ ”
“So, do you think Porthos got there first?” asked d’Artagnan.
“I’m sure of it. This Equinox, no matter how rich he is, can’t have horses to compare to monseigneur’s!”
D’Artagnan suppressed the urge to laugh because the brevity of Aramis’s letter provoked some serious thought. He followed Mousqueton, or rather Mousqueton’s chariot, up to the château, where they sat him down to a sumptuous meal and he was honored like a king, but he could get nothing more out of Mousqueton but worry and tears.
D’Artagnan, after a night spent on an excellent bed, continued to ponder Aramis’s letter, wondering what the approach of the equinox had to do with Porthos’s affairs, but came to no conclusion, unless it had something to do with some love affair of the amorous bishop in which, for some reason, the day had to be equal in length to the night.
Shortly thereafter, d’Artagnan left Pierrefonds as he had left Melun and as he’d left the château of the Comte de La Fère, with a touch of that melancholy that was the darkest of d’Artagnan’s moods. Riding head bowed, eyes unfocused, legs hanging limp at his horse’s sides, he said to himself, in that vague reverie that sometimes amounts to true eloquence, “No friends, no future, no nothing! With the loss of my old comrades goes the last of my strength! Old age creeps up on us, cold and inexorable, wrapping in its funereal crepe all that was brilliant and capable in youth, then throws that burden over its shoulder and carries it to the bottomless abyss of death.” A shudder shook the Gascon to his heart, usually so stalwart and brave against life’s misfortunes, and for a few moments the clouds looked black to him and the earth seemed nothing but cemetery dirt about to be shoveled on a grave.
“Where am I going?” he said to himself. “What do I think I’m doing? Alone… all alone, without family, without friends…
“Bah!” he suddenly cried. And he put his spurs into his horse, who’d found nothing to be sad about in the abundant oats of Pierrefonds, and took advantage of this permission to let himself out and show his good humor by galloping for a full league. “To Paris!” d’Artagnan said to himself. And the next day he arrived in Paris. His travels had taken him ten days.
XIX In Which d’Artagnan Brings His Business to Paris
The lieutenant dismounted in front of a shop in the Rue des Lombards at the sign of the Golden Pestle. A good-looking man wearing a white apron and stroking his gray mustache with a plump hand gave a cry of joy at the sight of the piebald horse and its rider. “Monsieur le Chevalier!” he said. “It’s you!”
“Bonjour, Planchet!”63 replied d’Artagnan, stooping slightly to enter the shop.
“Quick, someone,” cried Planchet, “take Monsieur d’Artagnan’s horse, make up his room, prepare his supper!”
“Thanks, Planchet! Hello, my children,” said d’Artagnan to the hurrying shop boys.
“Will you just give me a moment to send off this order of coffee, molasses, and raisins?” said Planchet. “It’s going to the kitchens of Monsieur le Surintendant.”
“Send it, send it.”
“It won’t take but a moment, and then we’ll have supper.”
“Arrange for us to dine in private,” said d’Artagnan. “I want to talk with you.”
Planchet gave his old master a wary look.
“Oh, don’t worry! It’s nothing disagreeable,” said d’Artagnan.
“Good! All the better!” And Planchet breathed freely again, as d’Artagnan sat himself down on a basket of corks and absorbed the ambience. The shop was well stocked and pervaded with an aroma of ginger, cinnamon, and cracked pepper that made d’Artagnan sneeze. The shop boys, happy to be in the presence of a warrior as renowned as a Lieutenant of Musketeers who personally served the king, worked with conspicuous diligence while serving their customers with a snotty disdain that more than one took noti
ce of.
Planchet counted the day’s money and closed his ledgers while making polite asides to his old master. He had with his customers the brusque manner and high-handed familiarity of the successful merchant who serves everyone on an equal footing. D’Artagnan observed these nuances with a pleasure we shall analyze later. He watched as night came on, and finally Planchet led him up to a room on the first floor, where, among the crates and bales, a very well-furnished table was set for two guests.
D’Artagnan took advantage of a moment of respite to consider the appearance of Planchet, whom he hadn’t seen for a year. The intelligent Planchet might be a little softer in the middle, but his wits were still sharp. His shining eyes still gazed keenly out of their sunken orbits, and fat, which softens all the features of the human face, had yet to swallow his prominent cheekbones, indicators of shrewdness and avarice, or his pointed chin, which showed finesse and perseverance. Planchet reigned in his dining room with as much majesty as in his shop. He offered his old master a meal that was frugal, but entirely Parisian: a roast chicken from the baker’s oven, with vegetables, salad, and dessert from the shop itself. D’Artagnan was pleased when the grocer drew from his private stock a bottle of that Anjou wine that, throughout d’Artagnan’s life, had always been his favorite drink.
“Formerly, Monsieur,” said Planchet, with a smile brimming with good nature, “I was the one who drank your wine, so it’s only fitting that now you drink mine.”
“And with God’s grace, friend Planchet, I’ll continue to drink it for a while to come, I hope, for now at last I’m free.”
“Free! You’ve gone on leave, Monsieur?”
“Forever!”
“You’ve quit the service?” said Planchet, stupefied.
“Yes, I’ve retired.”
“And the king?” cried Planchet, who couldn’t imagine how the king could manage without d’Artagnan.
“The king will have to try his luck with others.… But now that we’ve eaten, and you’re in an expansive mood, it encourages me to share secrets, so open your ears.”
“They’re open.” And Planchet, with a laugh that was honest rather than knowing, uncorked another bottle of the white wine.
Between Two Kings Page 15
