THE captain was sitting buried in his leathern arm-chair, his spur fixed in the floor, his sword between his legs, and was occupied in reading a great number of letters, as he twisted his mustache. D’Artagnan uttered a welcome full of pleasure when he perceived his friend’s son. “Raoul, my boy,” he said, “by what lucky accident does it happen that the King has recalled you?”
These words did not sound over-agreeably in the young man’s ears, who as he seated himself replied, “Upon my word, I cannot tell you; all that I know is that I have come back.”
“Hum!” said d’Artagnan, folding up his letters and directing a look full of meaning at him. “What do you say, my boy?- that the King has not recalled you, and that you have returned? I do not at all understand that.”
Raoul was already pale enough, and he began to turn his hat round and round in his hand with an air of constraint.
“What the deuce is the matter, that you look as you do, and what makes you so dumb?” said the captain. “Do people catch that fashion in England? I have been in England, and came back again as lively as a chaffinch. Will you not say something?”
“I have too much to say.”
“Ah! ah! how is your father?”
“Forgive me, my dear friend; I was going to ask you that.”
D’Artagnan increased the sharpness of his penetrating gaze, which no secret was capable of resisting. “You are unhappy about something,” he said.
“I am, indeed; and you know very well what, M. d’Artagnan.”
“I?”
“Of course. Nay, do not pretend to be astonished.”
“I am not pretending to be astonished, my friend.”
“Dear captain, I know very well that in all trials of finesse, as well as in all trials of strength, I shall be beaten by you. You can see that at the present moment I am an idiot, a fool. I have neither head nor arm; do not despise, but help me. In a few words, I am the most wretched of living beings.”
“Oh! oh! why that?” inquired d’Artagnan, unbuckling his belt and softening the ruggedness of his smile.
“Because Mademoiselle de la Valliere is deceiving me.”
“She is deceiving you?” said d’Artagnan, not a muscle of whose face had moved. “Those are big words. Who makes use of them?”
“Every one.”
“Ah! if every one says so, there must be some truth in it. I begin to believe there is fire when I see the smoke. It is ridiculous, perhaps, but so it is.”
“Therefore you do believe?” exclaimed Bragelonne, quickly.
“I never mix myself up in affairs of that kind; you know that very well.”
“What! not for a friend, for a son?”
“Exactly. If you were a stranger, I should tell you- I should tell you nothing at all. How is Porthos, do you know?”
“Monsieur,” cried Raoul, pressing d’Artagnan’s hand, “I entreat you, in the name of the friendship you have vowed to my father!”
“The deuce take it, you are really ill- from curiosity.”
“No, it is not from curiosity; it is from love.”
“Good! Another grand word! If you were really in love, my dear Raoul, you would be very different.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that if you were so deeply in love that I could believe I was addressing myself to your heart- But it is impossible.”
“I tell you I love Louise to distraction.”
D’Artagnan could read to the very bottom of the young man’s heart.
“Impossible, I tell you,” he said. “You are like all young men,- you are not in love, you are out of your senses.”
“Well, suppose it were only that?”
“No sensible man ever succeeded in making much of a brain when the head was turned. I have lost my bearings in the same way a hundred times in my life. You would listen to me, but you would not hear me; you would hear, but you would not understand me; you would understand, but you would not obey me.”
“Oh, try, try!”
“I say more. Even if I were unfortunate enough to know something, and foolish enough to communicate it to you- You are my friend, you say?”