The Prince offered his hand to Aramis, who sank upon his knee and kissed it. “Oh!” cried the Prince, with a charming modesty.
“It is the first act of homage paid to our future King,” said Aramis. “When I see you again, I shall say, ‘Good-day, Sire.'”
“Till then,” said the young man, pressing his wan and wasted fingers over his heart,- “till then, no more dreams, no more strain upon my life,- it would break! Oh, Monsieur, how small is my prison,- how low the window,- how narrow are the doors! To think that so much pride, splendor, and happiness should be able to enter in and remain here!”
“Your royal Highness makes me proud,” said Aramis, “since you imply it is I who brought all this”; and he rapped immediately on the door.
The jailer came to open it with Baisemeaux, who devoured by fear and uneasiness was beginning, in spite of himself, to listen at the door. Happily, neither of the speakers had forgotten to smother his voice, even in the most passionate outbreaks.
“What a confession!” said the governor, forcing a laugh; “who would believe that a mere recluse, a man almost dead, could have committed crimes so numerous, and taking so long to tell of?”
Aramis made no reply. He was eager to leave the Bastille, where the secret which overwhelmed him seemed to double the weight of the walls.
As soon as they reached Baisemeaux’s quarters, “Let us proceed to business, my dear governor,” said Aramis.
“Alas!” replied Baisemeaux.
“You have to ask me for my receipt for one hundred and fifty thousand livres,” said the bishop.
“And to pay over the first third of the sum,” added the poor governor, with a sigh, taking three steps towards his iron strong-box.
“Here is the receipt,” said Aramis.
“And here is the money,” returned Baisemeaux, with a threefold sigh.
“The order instructed me only to give a receipt; it said nothing about receiving the money,” rejoined Aramis. “Adieu, Monsieur the Governor!” And he departed, leaving Baisemeaux stifled with joy and surprise at this regal gift so grandly given by the Confessor Extraordinary to the Bastille.
Chapter XXX: How Mouston Had Become Fatter Without Giving Porthos Notice Thereof, and of the Troubles Which Consequently Befell That Worthy Gentleman
AFTER the departure of Athos for Blois, Porthos and d’Artagnan were seldom together. One was occupied with harassing duties for the King; the other had been making many purchases of furniture, which he intended to forward to his estate, and by aid of which he hoped to establish in his various residences something of that court luxury which he had witnessed in all its dazzling brightness in his Majesty’s society.
D’Artagnan, ever faithful, one morning during an interval of service thought about Porthos, and being uneasy at not having heard anything of him for a fortnight, directed his steps towards his hotel, and pounced upon him just as he was getting up. The worthy baron had a pensive,- nay, more, a melancholy air. He was sitting on his bed, only half dressed, and with legs dangling over the edge, contemplating a great number of garments, which with their fringes, lace, embroidery, and slashes of ill-assorted hues were strewed all over the floor.
Porthos, sad and reflective as La Fontaine’s hare, did not observe d’Artagnan’s entrance, which was moreover screened at this moment by M. Mouston, whose personal corpulence, quite enough at any time to hide one man from another, was for the moment doubled by a scarlet coat which the intendant was holding up by the sleeves for his master’s inspection, that he might the better see it all over. D’Artagnan stopped at the threshold, and looked at the pensive Porthos; and then, as the sight of the innumerable garments strewing the floor caused mighty sighs to heave from the bosom of that excellent gentleman, d’Artagnan thought it time to put an end to these dismal reflections, and coughed by way of announcing himself.
“Ah!” exclaimed Porthos, whose countenance brightened with joy, “ah! ah! Here is d’Artagnan. I shall, then, get hold of an idea!”
At these words Mouston, doubting what was going on behind him, got out of the way, smiling kindly at the friend of his master, who thus found himself freed from the material obstacle which had prevented his reaching d’Artagnan. Porthos made his sturdy knees crack again in rising, and crossing the room in two strides found himself face to face with his friend, whom he folded to his breast with a force of affection that seemed to increase with every day. “Ah!” he repeated, “you are always welcome, dear friend; but just now you are more welcome than ever.”