“Oh! oh!” said he, “what is all this about? Have I to do
with men of straw? Corne de boeuf! stand on one side, and
you shall see how this is to be done.”
“Peste!” said D’Artagnan, “will he pretend to raise that
rock? that would be a sight worth looking at.”
The workmen, as commanded by the engineer, drew back with
their ears down, and shaking their heads, with the exception
of the one who held the plank, who prepared to perform the
office. The man with the feathers went up to the stone,
stooped, slipped his hands under the face lying upon the
ground, stiffened his Herculean muscles, and without a
strain, with a slow motion, like that of a machine, he
lifted the end of the rock a foot from the ground. The
workman who held the plank profited by the space thus given
him, and slipped the roller under the stone.
“That’s the way,” said the giant, not letting the rock fall
again, but placing it upon its support.
“Mordioux!” cried D’Artagnan, “I know but one man capable of
such a feat of strength.”
“Hein!” cried the colossus, turning round.
“Porthos!” murmured D’Artagnan, seized with stupor, “Porthos
at Belle-Isle!”
On his part, the man with the feathers fixed his eyes upon
the disguised lieutenant, and, in spite of his
metamorphosis, recognized him. “D’Artagnan!” cried he; and
the color mounted to his face. “Hush!” said he to
D’Artagnan.
“Hush!” in his turn, said the musketeer. In fact if Porthos
had just been discovered by D’Artagnan, D’Artagnan had just
been discovered by Porthos. The interest of the particular
secret of each struck them both at the same instant.
Nevertheless the first movement of the two men was to throw
their arms around each other. What they wished to conceal
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from the bystanders, was not their friendship, but their
names. But, after the embrace, came reflection.
“What the devil brings Porthos to Belle-Isle, lifting
stones?” said D’Artagnan; only D’Artagnan uttered that
question in a low voice. Less strong in diplomacy than his
friend, Porthos thought aloud.
“How the devil did you come to Belle-Isle?” asked he of
D’Artagnan; “and what do you want to do here?” It was
necessary to reply without hesitation. To hesitate in his
answer to Porthos would have been a check, for which the
self-love of D’Artagnan would never have consoled itself.
“Pardieu! my friend, I am at Belle-Isle because you are.”
“Ah, bah!” said Porthos, visibly stupefied with the
argument, and seeking to account for it to himself, with the
felicity of deduction we know to be peculiar to him.
“Without doubt,” continued D’Artagnan, unwilling to give his
friend time to recollect himself, “I have been to see you at
Pierrefonds.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes.”
“And you did not find me there?”
“No, but I found Mouston.”
“Is he well?”
“Peste!”
“Well, but Mouston did not tell you I was here.”
“Why should he not Have I, perchance, deserved to lose his
confidence?”
“No, but he did not know it.”
“Well; that is a reason at least that does not offend my
self-love.”
“Then how did you manage to find me?”
“My dear friend, a great noble like you always leaves traces
behind him on his passage; and I should think but poorly of
myself, if I were not sharp enough to follow the traces of
my friends.” This explanation, flattering as it was, did not
entirely satisfy Porthos.
“But I left no traces behind me, for I came here disguised,”
said Porthos.
“Ah! You came disguised did you?” said D’Artagnan.
“Yes.”
“And how?”
“As a miller.”
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“And do you think a great noble, like you, Porthos, can
affect common manners so as to deceive people?”
“Well, I swear to you, my friend, that I played my part so
well that everybody was deceived.”
“Indeed! so well, that I have not discovered and joined
you?”
“Yes; but how did you discover and join me?”
“Stop a bit. I was going to tell you how. Do you imagine
Mouston —- ”
“Ah! it was that fellow, Mouston,” said Porthos, gathering
up those two triumphant arches which served him for