“Dear Porthos,” said he, suddenly, “I will explain d’Artagnan’s idea to you.”
“What idea, Aramis?”
“An idea to which we shall owe our liberty within twelve hours.”
“Ah, indeed!” said Porthos, much astonished; “let us hear it.”
“Did you remark in the scene our friend had with the officer that certain orders restrained him with regard to us?”
“Yes, I did remark that.”
“Well, d’Artagnan is going to give in his resignation to the King; and during the confusion which will result from his absence, we will get away,- or rather, you will get away, Porthos, if there is a possibility of flight only for one.”
Here, Porthos shook his head, and replied, “We will escape together, Aramis, or we will remain here together.”
“You are a generous heart,” said Aramis; “but your melancholy uneasiness afflicts me.”
“I am not uneasy,” said Porthos.
“Then you are angry with me?”
“I am not angry with you.”
“Then why, my friend, do you put on such a dismal countenance?”
“I will tell you: I am making my will”; and while saying these words, the good Porthos looked sadly in the face of Aramis.
“Your will!” cried the bishop. “What then! do you think yourself lost?”
“I feel fatigued; it is the first time, and there is a custom in our family.”
“What is it, my friend?”
“My grandfather was a man twice as strong as I am.”
“Indeed!” said Aramis; “then your grandfather must have been Samson himself.”
“No,- his name was Antoine. Well, he was of about my age when, setting out one day for the chase, he felt his legs weak,- he who had never before known that infirmity.”
“What was the meaning of that fatigue, my friend?”
“Nothing good, as you will see,- for having set out, complaining still of the weakness of his legs, he met a wild boar, which made head against him. He missed him with his arquebuse, and was ripped up by the beast, and died directly.”
“There is no reason in that why you should alarm yourself, dear Porthos.”
“Oh, you will see. My father was as strong again as I am. He was a rough soldier under Henry III and Henry IV; his name was not Antoine, but Gaspard,- the same as M. de Coligny’s. Always on horseback, he had never known what lassitude was. One evening, as he rose from table, his legs failed him.”
“He had supped heartily, perhaps,” said Aramis; “and that was why he staggered.”
“Bah! A friend of M. de Bassompierre? nonsense! No, no; he was astonished at feeling this lassitude, and said to my mother, who laughed at him, ‘Would not one believe I was going to meet with a wild boar, as the late M. du Vallon, my father, did?'”
“Well?” said Aramis.
“Well, braving this weakness, my father insisted upon going down into the garden, instead of going to bed. His foot slipped on the first stair; the staircase was steep; my father fell against a stone angle, in which an iron hinge was fixed. The hinge opened his temple, and he lay dead upon the spot.”
Aramis raised his eyes to his friend. “These are two extraordinary circumstances,” said he; “let us not infer that there may succeed a third. It is not becoming in a man of your strength to be superstitious, my brave Porthos. Besides, when were your legs seen to fail? Never have you been so firm, so superb; why, you could carry a house on your shoulders!”
“At this moment,” said Porthos, “I feel myself pretty active; but at times I vacillate, I sink; and lately this phenomenon, as you call it, has occurred four times. I will not say that this frightens me, but it annoys me. Life is an agreeable thing. I have money, I have fine estates, I have horses that I love; I have also friends I love,- d’Artagnan, Athos, Raoul, and you.”
The admirable Porthos did not even take the trouble to conceal from Aramis the rank he gave him in his friendship. Aramis pressed his hand. “We will still live many years,” said he, “to preserve in the world specimens of rare men. Trust yourself to me, my friend; we have no reply from d’Artagnan,- that is a good sign. He must have given orders to get the vessels together and clear the seas. On my part, I have just issued directions that a boat should be rolled upon rollers to the mouth of the great cavern of Locmaria, which you know, where we have so often lain in wait for foxes.”