Peste! that is curious, indeed.”
“Is it not?”
“Good God, what a number of things we learn by traveling.”
“To your health!” said Jupenet, quite enchanted.
“To yours, mordioux, to yours. But — an instant — not in
this cider. It is an abominable drink, unworthy of a man who
quenches his thirst at the Hippocrene fountain — is not it
so you call your fountain, you poets?”
“Yes, monsieur, our fountain is so called. That comes from
two Greek words — hippos, which means a horse, and —- ”
“Monsieur,” interrupted D’Artagnan, “you shall drink of a
liquor which comes from one single French word, and is none
the worse for that — from the word grape; this cider gives
me the heartburn. Allow me to inquire of your host if there
is not a good bottle of Beaugency, or of the Ceran growth,
at the back of the large bins in his cellar.”
The host, being sent for, immediately attended.
“Monsieur,” interrupted the poet, “take care, we shall not
have time to drink the wine, unless we make great haste, for
I must take advantage of the tide to secure the boat.”
“What boat?” asked D’Artagnan.
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“Why the boat which sets out for Belle-Isle!”
“Ah — for Belle-Isle,” said the musketeer, “that is good.”
“Bah! you will have plenty of time, monsieur,” replied the
hotelier, uncorking the bottle, “the boat will not leave
this hour.”
“But who will give me notice?” said the poet.
“Your fellow-traveler,” replied the host.
“But I scarcely know him.”
“When you hear him departing, it will be time for you to
go.”
“Is he going to Belle-Isle, likewise, then?”
“The traveler who has a lackey?” asked D’Artagnan. “He is
some gentleman, no doubt?”
“I know nothing of him.”
“What! — know nothing of him?”
“No, all I know is, that he is drinking the same wine as
you.”
“Peste! — that is a great honor for us,” said D’Artagnan,
filling his companion’s glass, whilst the host went out.
“So,” resumed the poet, returning to his dominant ideas,
“you never saw any printing done?”
“Never.”
“Well, then, take the letters thus, which compose the word,
you see: A B; ma foi! here is an R, two E E, then a G.” And
he assembled the letters with a swiftness and skill which
did not escape the eye of D’Artagnan.
“Abrege,” said he, as he ended.
“Good!” said D’Artagnan; “here are plenty of letters got
together; but how are they kept so?” And he poured out a
second glass for the poet. M. Jupenet smiled like a man who
has an answer for everything; then he pulled out — still
from his pocket — a little metal ruler, composed of two
parts, like a carpenter’s rule, against which he put
together, and in a line, the characters, holding them under
his left thumb.
“And what do you call that little metal ruler?” said
D’Artagnan, “for, I suppose, all these things have names.”
“This is called a composing-stick,” said Jupenet; “it is by
the aid of this stick that the lines are formed.”
“Come, then, I was not mistaken in what I said; you have a
press in your pocket,” said D’Artagnan, laughing with an air
of simplicity so stupid, that the poet was completely his
dupe.
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“No,” replied he; “but I am too lazy to write, and when I
have a verse in my head, I print it immediately. That is a
labor spared.”
“Mordioux!” thought D’Artagnan to himself, “this must be
cleared up.” And under a pretext, which did not embarrass
the musketeer, who was fertile in expedients, he left the
table, went downstairs, ran to the shed under which stood
the poet’s little cart, poked the point of his poniard into
the stuff which enveloped one of the packages, which he
found full of types, like those which the poet had in his
pocket.
“Humph!” said D’Artagnan, “I do not yet know whether M.
Fouquet wishes to fortify Belle-Isle; but, at all events,
here are some spiritual munitions for the castle.” Then,
enchanted with his rich discovery he ran upstairs again, and