D’Artagnan smiled—here was the chink in the armor, and he readied his blow. “But,” he said, “now your wife is no longer a liability, and you’re on your own.”
“Yes, but you know, not being of the ancient nobility like the Coucy, who were content to be lords, or the Rohans, who disdained to be dukes, all these people hereabout, these viscounts and counts, they all have precedence over me—at church, at ceremonies, everywhere—and I have nothing to say about it. Ah, if only I were . . .”
“A baron?” said d’Artagnan, finishing his friend’s sentence. “Is that it?”
“Ah!” cried Porthos, his face lighting up. “If only I were a baron!”
He’s hooked, thought d’Artagnan. Now to land him. Then, aloud: “Well, old friend, that title is exactly what I’ve come here today to bring you.”
Porthos jumped up in a bound that shook the room. Two or three bottles trembled, fell from the table and broke. Planchet started to clean up, as Mousqueton ran in. “Monseigneur needs something?” he asked. Porthos just waved him toward the broken bottles.
“I’m glad this brave fellow is still with you,” said d’Artagnan.
“He is my steward,” said Porthos. Then, raising his voice: “He’s just an old rascal who’s made good, as you can see, but,” and he lowered his voice again, “he wouldn’t leave me for the world.”
And he calls you monseigneur, d’Artagnan thought, smiling to himself.
“You can go now, Mouston,” said Porthos.
“You call him Mouston? You’ve abbreviated his name?”
“Yes,” said Porthos, “his old name savored of the enlisted man a league off. But we were talking business, I think, when he came in.”
“Quite so,” said d’Artagnan, “and we can’t be too careful. Your people might suspect something, and there could be spies even here in the country. You realize, Porthos, that these are serious matters.”
“Peste!” said Porthos. “All right, let’s take a walk in my park to aid our digestion.”
“Gladly.”
And as both had breakfasted well, they took a stroll into the gardens, down beautiful lanes of chestnuts and lime trees, thirty acres at least, among shrubbery and brushy thickets, where fat rabbits chased each other through the grass and between the bushes.
“My faith,” said d’Artagnan, “your park is like everything else of yours. If there are as many fish in your ponds as there are rabbits in your warrens, you must be a happy man, Porthos—assuming you still have a taste for hunting and fishing.”
“I leave the fishing to Mousqueton, as that’s a pursuit for commoners. I do still hunt sometimes—that is to say, when I’m bored, I’ll take Gredinet, my favorite dog, bring my gun, sit on one of my marble benches, and take shots at the rabbits.”
“That sounds like fun!” said d’Artagnan.
“Yes,” said Porthos. “What fun.” And he sighed again, but d’Artagnan had quit counting.
“And good old Gredinet,” Porthos added, “fetches the rabbits himself and carries them right to the cook in the kitchen.”
“A fine animal indeed!” said d’Artagnan.
“But enough about Gredinet—you can have him if you want him, for I tire of hunting,” said Porthos. “Let’s get back to that business you mentioned.”
“Certainly,” said d’Artagnan, “but I warn you, old friend, it’s the kind of business that means changing your life.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean getting back into harness, picking up your sword, and resuming your adventures, maybe taking some knocks along the way, like in the old days.”
“The devil you say!” said Porthos.
“Oh, I know it would be a shock. You’ve been spoiled by the good life, old friend, and may not have the iron wrist and the dashing moves that once put fear into the Cardinal’s Guards.”
“Bah! My wrist is still solid,” said Porthos, extending a hand like a shoulder of mutton.
“All the better.”
“So, we’re called to war?”
“We are, by God!”
“And against who?”
“Do you follow politics, old friend?”
“Me? Not in the least.”
“Do you favor Mazarin or the princes?”
“I don’t favor anybody.”
“Which is to say you favor yourself. So much the better, Porthos, given the business that’s ahead of us. Well, to be frank, I must say that I’ve come from the cardinal.”
That title resonated with Porthos, as if it were still 1640 and they were speaking of the old cardinal. “Oh, ho!” he said. “So, His Eminence wants me?”
“His Eminence desires you to join his service.”
“And who told him about me?”
“Rochefort. Remember him?”
“Pardieu, yes! He’s the one who gave us so much trouble back when we were riding the roads, the one you stuck a sword into three times over. He had it coming too.”
“But did you know he’s now one of our friends?” said d’Artagnan.
“He is? I didn’t know that. And he’s forgiven us?”
“Say, rather, that I’ve forgiven him,” said d’Artagnan.
Porthos couldn’t quite comprehend this, but it will be remembered that comprehension wasn’t his strong suit. “So you say,” he continued, “it was the Comte de Rochefort who spoke of me to the cardinal?”
“Him, and the queen.”
“The queen?”
“To inspire confidence, she even handed him that famous diamond you remember, the one I sold to Monsieur des Essarts but which, somehow, returned to her possession.”
“But it seems to me she would have done better to give it to you,” said Porthos. “That’s just common sense.”
“I’m with you,” said d’Artagnan, “but you know how it is! Kings and queens have their caprices. In the end, since they’re the ones with the power and honor, the ones who distribute titles and wealth, we devote ourselves to them.”
“Yes, that’s who we devote ourselves to!” said Porthos. “So right now, you’re devoted to . . . ?”
“The king, the queen, and the cardinal—and I’ve answered to them for your loyalty.”
“And you said you’ve obtained certain conditions for me?”
“Magnificent conditions, old friend, magnificent! You already have money, right? An income of forty thousand livres, you said?”
Porthos bridled. “Yes, but one can never have too much money. Madame du Vallon left my affairs in a tangle it would take a genius to sort out, and, well, I’m no genius. I barely get by from day to day.”
He’s afraid I’m here to borrow money from him, thought d’Artagnan. “Ah, old friend,” he said aloud, “so much the better if you’re hard up!”
“How so?” said Porthos.
“Because His Eminence is prepared to reward you with whatever you wish: land, money, and titles.”
“Ah!” said Porthos, opening his eyes wide at that final word.
“Under the old cardinal,” continued d’Artagnan, “we never found a way to make our fortunes, though the opportunity was there. Not that that matters much to you, who have forty thousand livres, and seem like the happiest man on earth.”
Porthos sighed.
“However,” d’Artagnan continued, “despite your forty thousand livres, or even because of them, it seems to me a little noble’s coronet would look well on your carriage door. Eh?”
“It would,” said Porthos.
“Then, old friend, reach for it—it’s at the end of your sword! To each our own: your goal is a title, and mine is money. I need enough to rebuild the estate of Artagnan—which my ancestors, impoverished by the Crusades, let fall into ruin—and buy some thirty acres around it. That will do it for me; with that I’ll retire.”
“And I,” said Porthos, “I want to be . . . a baron.”
“And so you shall.”
“Have you thought to propose this to our other friends?” asked Por
thos.
“In fact, I’ve seen Aramis.”
“And what does he want? To be a bishop?”
“Aramis, well,” said d’Artagnan, who didn’t want to disappoint Porthos, “Aramis, if you can imagine it, has become a monk and a Jesuit. He lives like a bear in a cave, renouncing the world and thinking only of salvation. I couldn’t persuade him out of it.”
“Too bad,” said Porthos. “He had brains, that one. And Athos?”
“I haven’t seen him yet, but I’ll look him up after I leave you. Do you know where I can find him?”
“Near Blois, on a small estate he inherited, I’m not sure from who.”
“What’s it called?”
“Bragelonne. It’s hard to understand—here’s Athos, who was as noble as an emperor, yet all he inherits are mere counties. And what’s he going to do with all these counties? The Comté de La Fère, and the Comté de Bragelonne? Eh?”
“It’s a shame he has no children,” said d’Artagnan.
“Hmm!” said Porthos. “I heard he’d adopted a young man who looks quite a bit like him.”
“Athos, our Athos, who was as virtuous as Scipio? Have you seen this lad?”
“No.”
“Well, perhaps I’ll bring back news of him. But I fear the worst, for Athos’s fondness for wine has probably ruined him.”
“Yes,” said Porthos, “it’s true, he did drink a lot.”
“And then, he was the eldest of us,” said d’Artagnan.
“By just a few years,” said Porthos. “It was his dark moods that made him seem old.”
“Yes, that’s so. Well, if Athos joins us, so much the better. If he doesn’t, it’ll be just us! We’re as good as a dozen other men.”
“Yes,” said Porthos, smiling at the memory their former exploits, “but the four of us would have been as good as thirty-six! Especially if the business will be as dangerous as you say.”
“Dangerous for recruits, maybe, but not for us.”
“How long will it take?”
“Dame! Perhaps three or four years.”
“Will there be much fighting?”
“I hope so.”
“The more the better!” cried Porthos. “You have no idea, my friend, how creaky my old bones have become since I’ve been down here! Sometimes, on Sundays, coming home from mass, I ride through my neighbors’ fields just to see if I can scare up a quarrel, but nothing doing. They’ve either learned to respect me or, more likely, learned to fear me. So they let me tramp down their clover with my dogs, nobody says boo, and I come home more bored than ever. At least, you say, they’re getting up to some mischief in Paris?”
“Oh, it’s charming, old friend—no more edicts against dueling, no Cardinal’s Guards, no pesky Jussacs54 or other bloodhounds meddling with us, by God! In the streets, in the taverns, everywhere, you just ask, ‘Are you a Frondeur?’ Then you draw your sword, and nothing more is said about it. Why, Monsieur de Guise killed Monsieur de Coligny right there in the Place Royale, and nothing came of it.”
“That does sound good,” said Porthos.
“And before long,” continued d’Artagnan, “it’ll be pitched battles, cannon fire, you name it!”
“I’ve decided then.”
“You’re committed?”
“Count me in. I’ll cut and thrust for this Mazarin. But you swear . . .”
“What?”
“That I’ll be made a baron.”
“Pardieu!” said d’Artagnan. “It’s as good as done. You’ll have your barony. I’ll answer for that.”
And on that promise, Porthos, who never doubted his friend’s word, walked back with him to his château.
XIV
In Which We Find That, If Porthos Was Unhappy with His Situation, Mousqueton Was Not
While returning to the château, as Porthos enjoyed his golden dreams of a barony, d’Artagnan reflected on the flaws in human nature, ever dissatisfied with what it had, always yearning for what it had not. In Porthos’s place, d’Artagnan would have been the happiest man on earth, but Porthos was miserable because he was missing—what, exactly? Five little letters to place before all his names, and a coronet to paint on the doors of his carriage.
“Will I spend my whole life,” d’Artagnan said to himself, “looking left, right, and center without ever seeing the face of a person who’s completely happy?”
In the midst of these philosophical musings Providence saw fit to contradict him. Just after Porthos left him to go give orders to the cook, d’Artragnan saw Mousqueton approaching. The brave fellow’s expression, but for the slightest shadow, like a passing summer cloud, seemed to be that of man who’d found perfect happiness.
“Now here’s what I was looking for,” said d’Artagnan. “It’s a shame the poor boy doesn’t know why I’m here.”
Mousqueton hovered at a slight distance. D’Artagnan sat on a marble bench and beckoned him to approach. “Monsieur,” said Mousqueton, taking advantage of the privilege, “I have a favor to ask you.”
“Speak, my friend,” said d’Artagnan.
“I’m afraid that if I do, you’ll think prosperity has spoiled me.”
“I certainly think it’s made you happy.”
“As happy as can be—but you could make me even happier.”
“Just ask. If I can do it, I will.”
“Oh, Monsieur, if only you would.”
“So?”
“Monsieur, the favor I have to ask is that you call me not Mousqueton, but Mouston. Since I’ve had the honor to be monseigneur’s steward, I’ve been known by the latter name, which is more dignified and commands respect from my subordinates. You know, Monsieur, how important it is for the servants to respect one.”
D’Artagnan smiled; while Porthos added to his names, Mousqueton shortened his.
“Well, Monsieur?” said Mousqueton, trembling.
“Well, then: Mouston it is,” said d’Artagnan. “And don’t worry, I won’t forget. In fact, if it makes you happy, I’ll stop calling you boy as well.”
“Oh!” cried Mousqueton, flushing with joy. “If you’ll do me this honor, Monsieur, I’ll be grateful all my life . . . if it’s not asking too much?”
“Hélas!” said d’Artagnan to himself. “It’s little enough to do for him, considering the unexpected trouble I’m about to bring this poor devil who’s received me so well.”
“Will Monsieur be staying with us long?” asked Mousqueton, whose face, restored to its former serenity, bloomed like a peony.
“I’m leaving tomorrow, my friend,” said d’Artagnan.
“Ah, Monsieur!” said Mousqueton. “So, you only came to visit us in order to leave us with more regrets?”
“I’m afraid so,” d’Artagnan said, but so low that Mousqueton, who was retiring behind a bower, didn’t hear it. D’Artagnan’s heart might have been like old leather, but at this it was touched with remorse. He didn’t regret enticing Porthos onto a road that put his life and fortune at risk, because Porthos would willingly put everything on the line for the title of baron—but as for Mousqueton, who desired nothing more than to be addressed as Mouston, wasn’t it cruel to snatch him away from his delicious life of abundance?
That idea was still gnawing at him when Porthos reappeared. “To dinner!” said Porthos.
“To dinner? Already?” said d’Artagnan. “What time is it?”
“Eh? Why, it’s already past one o’clock.”
“Porthos, your home is a paradise in which time is forgotten. I’ll come, but I’m not hungry yet.”
“Come, then—if you can’t eat, you can always drink. That’s one of the maxims of poor Athos that I remember when I’m bored.”
D’Artagnan, whose brash Gascon nature needed little in the way of drink, didn’t seem as committed to Athos’s axiom as his friend, but nonetheless did what he could to keep up with his host.
However, while watching Porthos eating and drinking with such gusto, the thought of Mousqueton returned to his mi
nd—all the more because Mousqueton, though he didn’t wait at their table, which would have been beneath his new position, nonetheless appeared frequently at the door, and marked his gratitude to d’Artagnan by sending in wine of a superior age and vintage.
So, when they reached dessert, and at a sign from d’Artagnan, Porthos had dismissed his servants and they were alone, d’Artagnan said, “Porthos, who will accompany you on our campaign?”
“Why, Mouston, of course,” replied Porthos.
That was a blow to d’Artagnan; already he imagined the benevolent smile of the steward twisted into a painful grimace. “Oh?” he said. “Mouston’s no longer in the first blush of youth, you know. Plus, he’s grown very . . . substantial. Perhaps he’s lost the habit of active service.”
“I’m aware of it,” said Porthos. “But I’m used to him. And besides, he’d never leave me—he’s too attached for that.”
How blind is self-love! thought d’Artagnan.
“Besides, don’t you still have your old lackey in your service?” asked Porthos. “That good, that honest, that intelligent . . . what do you call him?”
“Planchet. Yes, he’s back with me, but he’s no longer a lackey.”
“What is he, then?”
“Well, with that sixteen hundred livres he earned at the siege of La Rochelle by carrying our letter to Lord de Winter—you remember that—he opened a small confectioner’s shop in the Rue des Lombards.”
“Oh, so he’s a confectioner in the Rue des Lombards! . . .Then why is he with you?”
“He got involved in some escapades and is afraid of being found out.” And the musketeer related to his friend how he had once again found Planchet.
“Well!” said Porthos. “If you’d told me that one day Planchet would save old Rochefort, and that you’d hide him as a result . . .”
“You never would have believed it. But what would you have? Things happen, and men change.”
“That’s true about everything,” said Porthos, “except for wine, which never changes, except for the better. Taste some of this—it’s a Spanish vintage called sherry that I learned about from our friend Athos.”
Twenty Years After Page 13
