The french masters, p.122
The French Masters, page 122
“What have you done to him, then?”
“We have asked him for money.”
“The devil! Ah, I can understand that. It is a demand that Porthos takes very ill when he is not in funds; but I know he must be so at present.”
“We thought so, too, monsieur. As our house is carried on very regularly, and we make out our bills every week, at the end of eight days we presented our account; but it appeared we had chosen an unlucky moment, for at the first word on the subject, he sent us to all the devils. It is true he had been playing the day before.”
“Playing the day before! And with whom?”
“Lord, who can say, monsieur? With some gentleman who was traveling this way, to whom he proposed a game of LANSQUENET.”
“That’s it, then, and the foolish fellow lost all he had?”
“Even to his horse, monsieur; for when the gentleman was about to set out, we perceived that his lackey was saddling Monsieur Porthos’s horse, as well as his master’s. When we observed this to him, he told us all to trouble ourselves about our own business, as this horse belonged to him. We also informed Monsieur Porthos of what was going on; but he told us we were scoundrels to doubt a gentleman’s word, and that as he had said the horse was his, it must be so.”
“That’s Porthos all over,” murmured d’Artagnan.
“Then,” continued the host, “I replied that as from the moment we seemed not likely to come to a good understanding with respect to payment, I hoped that he would have at least the kindness to grant the favor of his custom to my brother host of the Golden Eagle; but Monsieur Porthos replied that, my house being the best, he should remain where he was. This reply was too flattering to allow me to insist on his departure. I confined myself then to begging him to give up his chamber, which is the handsomest in the hotel, and to be satisfied with a pretty little room on the third floor; but to this Monsieur Porthos replied that as he every moment expected his mistress, who was one of the greatest ladies in the court, I might easily comprehend that the chamber he did me the honor to occupy in my house was itself very mean for the visit of such a personage. Nevertheless, while acknowledging the truth of what he said, I thought proper to insist; but without even giving himself the trouble to enter into any discussion with me, he took one of his pistols, laid it on his table, day and night, and said that at the first word that should be spoken to him about removing, either within the house or out of it, he would blow out the brains of the person who should be so imprudent as to meddle with a matter which only concerned himself. Since that time, monsieur, nobody entered his chamber but his servant.”
“What! Mousqueton is here, then?”
“Oh, yes, monsieur. Five days after your departure, he came back, and in a very bad condition, too. It appears that he had met with disagreeableness, likewise, on his journey. Unfortunately, he is more nimble than his master; so that for the sake of his master, he puts us all under his feet, and as he thinks we might refuse what he asked for, he takes all he wants without asking at all.”
“The fact is,” said d’Artagnan, “I have always observed a great degree of intelligence and devotedness in Mousqueton.”
“That is possible, monsieur; but suppose I should happen to be brought in contact, even four times a year, with such intelligence and devotedness — why, I should be a ruined man!”
“No, for Porthos will pay you.”
“Hum!” said the host, in a doubtful tone.
“The favorite of a great lady will not be allowed to be inconvenienced for such a paltry sum as he owes you.”
“If I durst say what I believe on that head—”
“What you believe?”
“I ought rather to say, what I know.”
“What you know?”
“And even what I am sure of.”
“And of what are you so sure?”
“I would say that I know this great lady.”
“You?”
“Yes; I.”
“And how do you know her?”
“Oh, monsieur, if I could believe I might trust in your discretion.”
“Speak! By the word of a gentleman, you shall have no cause to repent of your confidence.”
“Well, monsieur, you understand that uneasiness makes us do many things.”
“What have you done?”
“Oh, nothing which was not right in the character of a creditor.”
“Well?”
“Monsieur Porthos gave us a note for his duchess, ordering us to put it in the post. This was before his servant came. As he could not leave his chamber, it was necessary to charge us with this commission.”
“And then?”
“Instead of putting the letter in the post, which is never safe, I took advantage of the journey of one of my lads to Paris, and ordered him to convey the letter to this duchess himself. This was fulfilling the intentions of Monsieur Porthos, who had desired us to be so careful of this letter, was it not?”
“Nearly so.”
“Well, monsieur, do you know who this great lady is?”
“No; I have heard Porthos speak of her, that’s all.”
“Do you know who this pretended duchess is?
“I repeat to you, I don’t know her.”
“Why, she is the old wife of a procurator* of the Chatelet, monsieur, named Madame Coquenard, who, although she is at least fifty, still gives herself jealous airs. It struck me as very odd that a princess should live in the Rue aux Ours.”
* Attorney
“But how do you know all this?”
“Because she flew into a great passion on receiving the letter, saying that Monsieur Porthos was a weathercock, and that she was sure it was for some woman he had received this wound.”
“Has he been wounded, then?”
“Oh, good Lord! What have I said?”
“You said that Porthos had received a sword cut.”
“Yes, but he has forbidden me so strictly to say so.”
“And why so.”
“Zounds, monsieur! Because he had boasted that he would perforate the stranger with whom you left him in dispute; whereas the stranger, on the contrary, in spite of all his rodomontades quickly threw him on his back. As Monsieur Porthos is a very boastful man, he insists that nobody shall know he has received this wound except the duchess, whom he endeavored to interest by an account of his adventure.”
“It is a wound that confines him to his bed?”
“Ah, and a master stroke, too, I assure you. Your friend’s soul must stick tight to his body.”
“Were you there, then?”
“Monsieur, I followed them from curiosity, so that I saw the combat without the combatants seeing me.”
“And what took place?”
“Oh! The affair was not long, I assure you. They placed themselves on guard; the stranger made a feint and a lunge, and that so rapidly that when Monsieur Porthos came to the PARADE, he had already three inches of steel in his breast. He immediately fell backward. The stranger placed the point of his sword at his throat; and Monsieur Porthos, finding himself at the mercy of his adversary, acknowledged himself conquered. Upon which the stranger asked his name, and learning that it was Porthos, and not d’Artagnan, he assisted him to rise, brought him back to the hotel, mounted his horse, and disappeared.”
“So it was with Monsieur d’Artagnan this stranger meant to quarrel?”
“It appears so.”
“And do you know what has become of him?”
“No, I never saw him until that moment, and have not seen him since.”
“Very well; I know all that I wish to know. Porthos’s chamber is, you say, on the first story, Number One?”
“Yes, monsieur, the handsomest in the inn — a chamber that I could have let ten times over.”
“Bah! Be satisfied,” said d’Artagnan, laughing, “Porthos will pay you with the money of the Duchess Coquenard.”
“Oh, monsieur, procurator’s wife or duchess, if she will but loosen her pursestrings, it will be all the same; but she positively answered that she was tired of the exigencies and infidelities of Monsieur Porthos, and that she would not send him a denier.”
“And did you convey this answer to your guest?”
“We took good care not to do that; he would have found in what fashion we had executed his commission.”
“So that he still expects his money?”
“Oh, Lord, yes, monsieur! Yesterday he wrote again; but it was his servant who this time put the letter in the post.”
“Do you say the procurator’s wife is old and ugly?”
“Fifty at least, monsieur, and not at all handsome, according to Pathaud’s account.”
“In that case, you may be quite at ease; she will soon be softened. Besides, Porthos cannot owe you much.”
“How, not much! Twenty good pistoles, already, without reckoning the doctor. He denies himself nothing; it may easily be seen he has been accustomed to live well.”
“Never mind; if his mistress abandons him, he will find friends, I will answer for it. So, my dear host, be not uneasy, and continue to take all the care of him that his situation requires.”
“Monsieur has promised me not to open his mouth about the procurator’s wife, and not to say a word of the wound?”
“That’s agreed; you have my word.”
“Oh, he would kill me!”
“Don’t be afraid; he is not so much of a devil as he appears.”
Saying these words, d’Artagnan went upstairs, leaving his host a little better satisfied with respect to two things in which he appeared to be very much interested — his debt and his life.
At the top of the stairs, upon the most conspicuous door of the corridor, was traced in black ink a gigantic number “1.” d’Artagnan knocked, and upon the bidding to come in which came from inside, he entered the chamber.
Porthos was in bed, and was playing a game at LANSQUENET with Mousqueton, to keep his hand in; while a spit loaded with partridges was turning before the fire, and on each side of a large chimneypiece, over two chafing dishes, were boiling two stewpans, from which exhaled a double odor of rabbit and fish stews, rejoicing to the smell. In addition to this he perceived that the top of a wardrobe and the marble of a commode were covered with empty bottles.
At the sight of his friend, Porthos uttered a loud cry of joy; and Mousqueton, rising respectfully, yielded his place to him, and went to give an eye to the two stewpans, of which he appeared to have the particular inspection.
“Ah, PARDIEU! Is that you?” said Porthos to d’Artagnan. “You are right welcome. Excuse my not coming to meet you; but,” added he, looking at d’Artagnan with a certain degree of uneasiness, “you know what has happened to me?”
“No.”
“Has the host told you nothing, then?”
“I asked after you, and came up as soon as I could.”
Porthos seemed to breathe more freely.
“And what has happened to you, my dear Porthos?” continued d’Artagnan.
“Why, on making a thrust at my adversary, whom I had already hit three times, and whom I meant to finish with the fourth, I put my foot on a stone, slipped, and strained my knee.”
“Truly?”
“Honor! Luckily for the rascal, for I should have left him dead on the spot, I assure you.”
“And what has became of him?”
“Oh, I don’t know; he had enough, and set off without waiting for the rest. But you, my dear d’Artagnan, what has happened to you?”
“So that this strain of the knee,” continued d’Artagnan, “my dear Porthos, keeps you in bed?”
“My God, that’s all. I shall be about again in a few days.”
“Why did you not have yourself conveyed to Paris? You must be cruelly bored here.”
“That was my intention; but, my dear friend, I have one thing to confess to you.”
“What’s that?”
“It is that as I was cruelly bored, as you say, and as I had the seventy-five pistoles in my pocket which you had distributed to me, in order to amuse myself I invited a gentleman who was traveling this way to walk up, and proposed a cast of dice. He accepted my challenge, and, my faith, my seventy-five pistoles passed from my pocket to his, without reckoning my horse, which he won into the bargain. But you, my dear d’Artagnan?”
“What can you expect, my dear Porthos; a man is not privileged in all ways,” said d’Artagnan. “You know the proverb ‘Unlucky at play, lucky in love.’ You are too fortunate in your love for play not to take its revenge. What consequence can the reverses of fortune be to you? Have you not, happy rogue that you are — have you not your duchess, who cannot fail to come to your aid?”
“Well, you see, my dear d’Artagnan, with what ill luck I play,” replied Porthos, with the most careless air in the world. “I wrote to her to send me fifty louis or so, of which I stood absolutely in need on account of my accident.”
“Well?”
“Well, she must be at her country seat, for she has not answered me.”
“Truly?”
“No; so I yesterday addressed another epistle to her, still more pressing than the first. But you are here, my dear fellow, let us speak of you. I confess I began to be very uneasy on your account.”
“But your host behaves very well toward you, as it appears, my dear Porthos,” said d’Artagnan, directing the sick man’s attention to the full stewpans and the empty bottles.
“So, so,” replied Porthos. “Only three or four days ago the impertinent jackanapes gave me his bill, and I was forced to turn both him and his bill out of the door; so that I am here something in the fashion of a conqueror, holding my position, as it were, my conquest. So you see, being in constant fear of being forced from that position, I am armed to the teeth.”
“And yet,” said d’Artagnan, laughing, “it appears to me that from time to time you must make SORTIES.” And he again pointed to the bottles and the stewpans.
“Not I, unfortunately!” said Porthos. “This miserable strain confines me to my bed; but Mousqueton forages, and brings in provisions. Friend Mousqueton, you see that we have a reinforcement, and we must have an increase of supplies.”
“Mousqueton,” said d’Artagnan, “you must render me a service.”
“What, monsieur?”
“You must give your recipe to Planchet. I may be besieged in my turn, and I shall not be sorry for him to be able to let me enjoy the same advantages with which you gratify your master.”
“Lord, monsieur! There is nothing more easy,” said Mousqueton, with a modest air. “One only needs to be sharp, that’s all. I was brought up in the country, and my father in his leisure time was something of a poacher.”
“And what did he do the rest of his time?”
“Monsieur, he carried on a trade which I have always thought satisfactory.”
“Which?”
“As it was a time of war between the Catholics and the Huguenots, and as he saw the Catholics exterminate the Huguenots and the Huguenots exterminate the Catholics — all in the name of religion — he adopted a mixed belief which permitted him to be sometimes Catholic, sometimes a Huguenot. Now, he was accustomed to walk with his fowling piece on his shoulder, behind the hedges which border the roads, and when he saw a Catholic coming alone, the Protestant religion immediately prevailed in his mind. He lowered his gun in the direction of the traveler; then, when he was within ten paces of him, he commenced a conversation which almost always ended by the traveler’s abandoning his purse to save his life. It goes without saying that when he saw a Huguenot coming, he felt himself filled with such ardent Catholic zeal that he could not understand how, a quarter of an hour before, he had been able to have any doubts upon the superiority of our holy religion. For my part, monsieur, I am Catholic — my father, faithful to his principles, having made my elder brother a Huguenot.”
“And what was the end of this worthy man?” asked d’Artagnan.
“Oh, of the most unfortunate kind, monsieur. One day he was surprised in a lonely road between a Huguenot and a Catholic, with both of whom he had before had business, and who both knew him again; so they united against him and hanged him on a tree. Then they came and boasted of their fine exploit in the cabaret of the next village, where my brother and I were drinking.”
“And what did you do?” said d’Artagnan.
“We let them tell their story out,” replied Mousqueton. “Then, as in leaving the cabaret they took different directions, my brother went and hid himself on the road of the Catholic, and I on that of the Huguenot. Two hours after, all was over; we had done the business of both, admiring the foresight of our poor father, who had taken the precaution to bring each of us up in a different religion.”
“Well, I must allow, as you say, your father was a very intelligent fellow. And you say in his leisure moments the worthy man was a poacher?”
“Yes, monsieur, and it was he who taught me to lay a snare and ground a line. The consequence is that when I saw our laborers, which did not at all suit two such delicate stomachs as ours, I had recourse to a little of my old trade. While walking near the wood of Monsieur le Prince, I laid a few snare in the runs; and while reclining on the banks of his Highness’s pieces of water, I slipped a few lines into his fish ponds. So that now, thanks be to God, we do not want, as Monsieur can testify, for partridges, rabbits, carp or eels — all light, wholesome food, suitable for the sick.”
“But the wine,” said d’Artagnan, “who furnishes the wine? Your host?”
“That is to say, yes and no.”
“How yes and no?”
“He furnishes it, it is true, but he does not know that he has that honor.”
“Explain yourself, Mousqueton; your conversation is full of instructive things.”
“That is it, monsieur. It has so chanced that I met with a Spaniard in my peregrinations who had seen many countries, and among them the New World.”
“What connection can the New World have with the bottles which are on the commode and the wardrobe?”
“Patience, monsieur, everything will come in its turn.”
“This Spaniard had in his service a lackey who had accompanied him in his voyage to Mexico. This lackey was my compatriot; and we became the more intimate from there being many resemblances of character between us. We loved sporting of all kinds better than anything; so that he related to me how in the plains of the Pampas the natives hunt the tiger and the wild bull with simple running nooses which they throw to a distance of twenty or thirty paces the end of a cord with such nicety; but in face of the proof I was obliged to acknowledge the truth of the recital. My friend placed a bottle at the distance of thirty paces, and at each cast he caught the neck of the bottle in his running noose. I practiced this exercise, and as nature has endowed me with some faculties, at this day I can throw the lasso with any man in the world. Well, do you understand, monsieur? Our host has a well-furnished cellar the key of which never leaves him; only this cellar has a ventilating hole. Now through this ventilating hole I throw my lasso, and as I now know in which part of the cellar is the best wine, that’s my point for sport. You see, monsieur, what the New World has to do with the bottles which are on the commode and the wardrobe. Now, will you taste our wine, and without prejudice say what you think of it?”
“We have asked him for money.”
“The devil! Ah, I can understand that. It is a demand that Porthos takes very ill when he is not in funds; but I know he must be so at present.”
“We thought so, too, monsieur. As our house is carried on very regularly, and we make out our bills every week, at the end of eight days we presented our account; but it appeared we had chosen an unlucky moment, for at the first word on the subject, he sent us to all the devils. It is true he had been playing the day before.”
“Playing the day before! And with whom?”
“Lord, who can say, monsieur? With some gentleman who was traveling this way, to whom he proposed a game of LANSQUENET.”
“That’s it, then, and the foolish fellow lost all he had?”
“Even to his horse, monsieur; for when the gentleman was about to set out, we perceived that his lackey was saddling Monsieur Porthos’s horse, as well as his master’s. When we observed this to him, he told us all to trouble ourselves about our own business, as this horse belonged to him. We also informed Monsieur Porthos of what was going on; but he told us we were scoundrels to doubt a gentleman’s word, and that as he had said the horse was his, it must be so.”
“That’s Porthos all over,” murmured d’Artagnan.
“Then,” continued the host, “I replied that as from the moment we seemed not likely to come to a good understanding with respect to payment, I hoped that he would have at least the kindness to grant the favor of his custom to my brother host of the Golden Eagle; but Monsieur Porthos replied that, my house being the best, he should remain where he was. This reply was too flattering to allow me to insist on his departure. I confined myself then to begging him to give up his chamber, which is the handsomest in the hotel, and to be satisfied with a pretty little room on the third floor; but to this Monsieur Porthos replied that as he every moment expected his mistress, who was one of the greatest ladies in the court, I might easily comprehend that the chamber he did me the honor to occupy in my house was itself very mean for the visit of such a personage. Nevertheless, while acknowledging the truth of what he said, I thought proper to insist; but without even giving himself the trouble to enter into any discussion with me, he took one of his pistols, laid it on his table, day and night, and said that at the first word that should be spoken to him about removing, either within the house or out of it, he would blow out the brains of the person who should be so imprudent as to meddle with a matter which only concerned himself. Since that time, monsieur, nobody entered his chamber but his servant.”
“What! Mousqueton is here, then?”
“Oh, yes, monsieur. Five days after your departure, he came back, and in a very bad condition, too. It appears that he had met with disagreeableness, likewise, on his journey. Unfortunately, he is more nimble than his master; so that for the sake of his master, he puts us all under his feet, and as he thinks we might refuse what he asked for, he takes all he wants without asking at all.”
“The fact is,” said d’Artagnan, “I have always observed a great degree of intelligence and devotedness in Mousqueton.”
“That is possible, monsieur; but suppose I should happen to be brought in contact, even four times a year, with such intelligence and devotedness — why, I should be a ruined man!”
“No, for Porthos will pay you.”
“Hum!” said the host, in a doubtful tone.
“The favorite of a great lady will not be allowed to be inconvenienced for such a paltry sum as he owes you.”
“If I durst say what I believe on that head—”
“What you believe?”
“I ought rather to say, what I know.”
“What you know?”
“And even what I am sure of.”
“And of what are you so sure?”
“I would say that I know this great lady.”
“You?”
“Yes; I.”
“And how do you know her?”
“Oh, monsieur, if I could believe I might trust in your discretion.”
“Speak! By the word of a gentleman, you shall have no cause to repent of your confidence.”
“Well, monsieur, you understand that uneasiness makes us do many things.”
“What have you done?”
“Oh, nothing which was not right in the character of a creditor.”
“Well?”
“Monsieur Porthos gave us a note for his duchess, ordering us to put it in the post. This was before his servant came. As he could not leave his chamber, it was necessary to charge us with this commission.”
“And then?”
“Instead of putting the letter in the post, which is never safe, I took advantage of the journey of one of my lads to Paris, and ordered him to convey the letter to this duchess himself. This was fulfilling the intentions of Monsieur Porthos, who had desired us to be so careful of this letter, was it not?”
“Nearly so.”
“Well, monsieur, do you know who this great lady is?”
“No; I have heard Porthos speak of her, that’s all.”
“Do you know who this pretended duchess is?
“I repeat to you, I don’t know her.”
“Why, she is the old wife of a procurator* of the Chatelet, monsieur, named Madame Coquenard, who, although she is at least fifty, still gives herself jealous airs. It struck me as very odd that a princess should live in the Rue aux Ours.”
* Attorney
“But how do you know all this?”
“Because she flew into a great passion on receiving the letter, saying that Monsieur Porthos was a weathercock, and that she was sure it was for some woman he had received this wound.”
“Has he been wounded, then?”
“Oh, good Lord! What have I said?”
“You said that Porthos had received a sword cut.”
“Yes, but he has forbidden me so strictly to say so.”
“And why so.”
“Zounds, monsieur! Because he had boasted that he would perforate the stranger with whom you left him in dispute; whereas the stranger, on the contrary, in spite of all his rodomontades quickly threw him on his back. As Monsieur Porthos is a very boastful man, he insists that nobody shall know he has received this wound except the duchess, whom he endeavored to interest by an account of his adventure.”
“It is a wound that confines him to his bed?”
“Ah, and a master stroke, too, I assure you. Your friend’s soul must stick tight to his body.”
“Were you there, then?”
“Monsieur, I followed them from curiosity, so that I saw the combat without the combatants seeing me.”
“And what took place?”
“Oh! The affair was not long, I assure you. They placed themselves on guard; the stranger made a feint and a lunge, and that so rapidly that when Monsieur Porthos came to the PARADE, he had already three inches of steel in his breast. He immediately fell backward. The stranger placed the point of his sword at his throat; and Monsieur Porthos, finding himself at the mercy of his adversary, acknowledged himself conquered. Upon which the stranger asked his name, and learning that it was Porthos, and not d’Artagnan, he assisted him to rise, brought him back to the hotel, mounted his horse, and disappeared.”
“So it was with Monsieur d’Artagnan this stranger meant to quarrel?”
“It appears so.”
“And do you know what has become of him?”
“No, I never saw him until that moment, and have not seen him since.”
“Very well; I know all that I wish to know. Porthos’s chamber is, you say, on the first story, Number One?”
“Yes, monsieur, the handsomest in the inn — a chamber that I could have let ten times over.”
“Bah! Be satisfied,” said d’Artagnan, laughing, “Porthos will pay you with the money of the Duchess Coquenard.”
“Oh, monsieur, procurator’s wife or duchess, if she will but loosen her pursestrings, it will be all the same; but she positively answered that she was tired of the exigencies and infidelities of Monsieur Porthos, and that she would not send him a denier.”
“And did you convey this answer to your guest?”
“We took good care not to do that; he would have found in what fashion we had executed his commission.”
“So that he still expects his money?”
“Oh, Lord, yes, monsieur! Yesterday he wrote again; but it was his servant who this time put the letter in the post.”
“Do you say the procurator’s wife is old and ugly?”
“Fifty at least, monsieur, and not at all handsome, according to Pathaud’s account.”
“In that case, you may be quite at ease; she will soon be softened. Besides, Porthos cannot owe you much.”
“How, not much! Twenty good pistoles, already, without reckoning the doctor. He denies himself nothing; it may easily be seen he has been accustomed to live well.”
“Never mind; if his mistress abandons him, he will find friends, I will answer for it. So, my dear host, be not uneasy, and continue to take all the care of him that his situation requires.”
“Monsieur has promised me not to open his mouth about the procurator’s wife, and not to say a word of the wound?”
“That’s agreed; you have my word.”
“Oh, he would kill me!”
“Don’t be afraid; he is not so much of a devil as he appears.”
Saying these words, d’Artagnan went upstairs, leaving his host a little better satisfied with respect to two things in which he appeared to be very much interested — his debt and his life.
At the top of the stairs, upon the most conspicuous door of the corridor, was traced in black ink a gigantic number “1.” d’Artagnan knocked, and upon the bidding to come in which came from inside, he entered the chamber.
Porthos was in bed, and was playing a game at LANSQUENET with Mousqueton, to keep his hand in; while a spit loaded with partridges was turning before the fire, and on each side of a large chimneypiece, over two chafing dishes, were boiling two stewpans, from which exhaled a double odor of rabbit and fish stews, rejoicing to the smell. In addition to this he perceived that the top of a wardrobe and the marble of a commode were covered with empty bottles.
At the sight of his friend, Porthos uttered a loud cry of joy; and Mousqueton, rising respectfully, yielded his place to him, and went to give an eye to the two stewpans, of which he appeared to have the particular inspection.
“Ah, PARDIEU! Is that you?” said Porthos to d’Artagnan. “You are right welcome. Excuse my not coming to meet you; but,” added he, looking at d’Artagnan with a certain degree of uneasiness, “you know what has happened to me?”
“No.”
“Has the host told you nothing, then?”
“I asked after you, and came up as soon as I could.”
Porthos seemed to breathe more freely.
“And what has happened to you, my dear Porthos?” continued d’Artagnan.
“Why, on making a thrust at my adversary, whom I had already hit three times, and whom I meant to finish with the fourth, I put my foot on a stone, slipped, and strained my knee.”
“Truly?”
“Honor! Luckily for the rascal, for I should have left him dead on the spot, I assure you.”
“And what has became of him?”
“Oh, I don’t know; he had enough, and set off without waiting for the rest. But you, my dear d’Artagnan, what has happened to you?”
“So that this strain of the knee,” continued d’Artagnan, “my dear Porthos, keeps you in bed?”
“My God, that’s all. I shall be about again in a few days.”
“Why did you not have yourself conveyed to Paris? You must be cruelly bored here.”
“That was my intention; but, my dear friend, I have one thing to confess to you.”
“What’s that?”
“It is that as I was cruelly bored, as you say, and as I had the seventy-five pistoles in my pocket which you had distributed to me, in order to amuse myself I invited a gentleman who was traveling this way to walk up, and proposed a cast of dice. He accepted my challenge, and, my faith, my seventy-five pistoles passed from my pocket to his, without reckoning my horse, which he won into the bargain. But you, my dear d’Artagnan?”
“What can you expect, my dear Porthos; a man is not privileged in all ways,” said d’Artagnan. “You know the proverb ‘Unlucky at play, lucky in love.’ You are too fortunate in your love for play not to take its revenge. What consequence can the reverses of fortune be to you? Have you not, happy rogue that you are — have you not your duchess, who cannot fail to come to your aid?”
“Well, you see, my dear d’Artagnan, with what ill luck I play,” replied Porthos, with the most careless air in the world. “I wrote to her to send me fifty louis or so, of which I stood absolutely in need on account of my accident.”
“Well?”
“Well, she must be at her country seat, for she has not answered me.”
“Truly?”
“No; so I yesterday addressed another epistle to her, still more pressing than the first. But you are here, my dear fellow, let us speak of you. I confess I began to be very uneasy on your account.”
“But your host behaves very well toward you, as it appears, my dear Porthos,” said d’Artagnan, directing the sick man’s attention to the full stewpans and the empty bottles.
“So, so,” replied Porthos. “Only three or four days ago the impertinent jackanapes gave me his bill, and I was forced to turn both him and his bill out of the door; so that I am here something in the fashion of a conqueror, holding my position, as it were, my conquest. So you see, being in constant fear of being forced from that position, I am armed to the teeth.”
“And yet,” said d’Artagnan, laughing, “it appears to me that from time to time you must make SORTIES.” And he again pointed to the bottles and the stewpans.
“Not I, unfortunately!” said Porthos. “This miserable strain confines me to my bed; but Mousqueton forages, and brings in provisions. Friend Mousqueton, you see that we have a reinforcement, and we must have an increase of supplies.”
“Mousqueton,” said d’Artagnan, “you must render me a service.”
“What, monsieur?”
“You must give your recipe to Planchet. I may be besieged in my turn, and I shall not be sorry for him to be able to let me enjoy the same advantages with which you gratify your master.”
“Lord, monsieur! There is nothing more easy,” said Mousqueton, with a modest air. “One only needs to be sharp, that’s all. I was brought up in the country, and my father in his leisure time was something of a poacher.”
“And what did he do the rest of his time?”
“Monsieur, he carried on a trade which I have always thought satisfactory.”
“Which?”
“As it was a time of war between the Catholics and the Huguenots, and as he saw the Catholics exterminate the Huguenots and the Huguenots exterminate the Catholics — all in the name of religion — he adopted a mixed belief which permitted him to be sometimes Catholic, sometimes a Huguenot. Now, he was accustomed to walk with his fowling piece on his shoulder, behind the hedges which border the roads, and when he saw a Catholic coming alone, the Protestant religion immediately prevailed in his mind. He lowered his gun in the direction of the traveler; then, when he was within ten paces of him, he commenced a conversation which almost always ended by the traveler’s abandoning his purse to save his life. It goes without saying that when he saw a Huguenot coming, he felt himself filled with such ardent Catholic zeal that he could not understand how, a quarter of an hour before, he had been able to have any doubts upon the superiority of our holy religion. For my part, monsieur, I am Catholic — my father, faithful to his principles, having made my elder brother a Huguenot.”
“And what was the end of this worthy man?” asked d’Artagnan.
“Oh, of the most unfortunate kind, monsieur. One day he was surprised in a lonely road between a Huguenot and a Catholic, with both of whom he had before had business, and who both knew him again; so they united against him and hanged him on a tree. Then they came and boasted of their fine exploit in the cabaret of the next village, where my brother and I were drinking.”
“And what did you do?” said d’Artagnan.
“We let them tell their story out,” replied Mousqueton. “Then, as in leaving the cabaret they took different directions, my brother went and hid himself on the road of the Catholic, and I on that of the Huguenot. Two hours after, all was over; we had done the business of both, admiring the foresight of our poor father, who had taken the precaution to bring each of us up in a different religion.”
“Well, I must allow, as you say, your father was a very intelligent fellow. And you say in his leisure moments the worthy man was a poacher?”
“Yes, monsieur, and it was he who taught me to lay a snare and ground a line. The consequence is that when I saw our laborers, which did not at all suit two such delicate stomachs as ours, I had recourse to a little of my old trade. While walking near the wood of Monsieur le Prince, I laid a few snare in the runs; and while reclining on the banks of his Highness’s pieces of water, I slipped a few lines into his fish ponds. So that now, thanks be to God, we do not want, as Monsieur can testify, for partridges, rabbits, carp or eels — all light, wholesome food, suitable for the sick.”
“But the wine,” said d’Artagnan, “who furnishes the wine? Your host?”
“That is to say, yes and no.”
“How yes and no?”
“He furnishes it, it is true, but he does not know that he has that honor.”
“Explain yourself, Mousqueton; your conversation is full of instructive things.”
“That is it, monsieur. It has so chanced that I met with a Spaniard in my peregrinations who had seen many countries, and among them the New World.”
“What connection can the New World have with the bottles which are on the commode and the wardrobe?”
“Patience, monsieur, everything will come in its turn.”
“This Spaniard had in his service a lackey who had accompanied him in his voyage to Mexico. This lackey was my compatriot; and we became the more intimate from there being many resemblances of character between us. We loved sporting of all kinds better than anything; so that he related to me how in the plains of the Pampas the natives hunt the tiger and the wild bull with simple running nooses which they throw to a distance of twenty or thirty paces the end of a cord with such nicety; but in face of the proof I was obliged to acknowledge the truth of the recital. My friend placed a bottle at the distance of thirty paces, and at each cast he caught the neck of the bottle in his running noose. I practiced this exercise, and as nature has endowed me with some faculties, at this day I can throw the lasso with any man in the world. Well, do you understand, monsieur? Our host has a well-furnished cellar the key of which never leaves him; only this cellar has a ventilating hole. Now through this ventilating hole I throw my lasso, and as I now know in which part of the cellar is the best wine, that’s my point for sport. You see, monsieur, what the New World has to do with the bottles which are on the commode and the wardrobe. Now, will you taste our wine, and without prejudice say what you think of it?”
