“No; all I can say is that he is a man who has studied all
the systems, and who appears to me to have stopped at the
best.”
“Hush!” said Porthos; “consider my modesty, my dear
D’Artagnan.”
“In truth,” replied the musketeer, “can it be you — who —
oh!”
“Pray — my dear friend —- ”
“You who have imagined, traced, and combined between these
bastions, these redans, these curtains, these half-moons;
and are preparing that covered way?”
“I beg you —- ”
“You who have built that lunette with its retiring angles
and its salient angles?”
“My friend —- ”
“You who have given that inclination to the openings of your
embrasures, by means of which you so effectively protect the
men who serve the guns?”
“Eh! mon Dieu! yes.”
“Oh! Porthos, Porthos! I must bow down before you — I must
admire you! But you have always concealed from us this
superb, this incomparable genius. I hope, my dear friend,
you will show me all this in detail.”
“Nothing more easy. Here lies my original sketch, my plan.”
“Show it me.” Porthos led D’Artagnan towards the stone that
served him for a table, and upon which the plan was spread.
At the foot of the plan was written, in the formidable
writing of Porthos, writing of which we have already had
occasion to speak: —
“Instead of making use of the square or rectangle, as has
been done to this time, you will suppose your place inclosed
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in a regular hexagon, this polygon having the advantage of
offering more angles than the quadrilateral one. Every side
of your hexagon, of which you will determine the length in
proportion to the dimensions taken upon the place, will be
divided into two parts and upon the middle point you will
elevate a perpendicular towards the center of the polygon,
which will equal in length the sixth part of the side. By
the extremities of each side of the polygon, you will trace
two diagonals, which will cut the perpendicular. These will
form the precise lines of your defense.”
“The devil!” said D’Artagnan, stopping at this point of the
demonstration; “why, this is a complete system, Porthos.”
“Entirely,” said Porthos. “Continue.”
“No; I have read enough of it; but, since it is you, my dear
Porthos, who direct the works, what need have you of setting
down your system so formally in writing?”
“Oh! my dear friend, death!”
“How! death?”
“Why, we are all mortal, are we not?”
“That is true,” said D’Artagnan; “you have a reply for
everything, my friend.” And he replaced the plan upon the
stone.
But however short the time he had the plan in his hands,
D’Artagnan had been able to distinguish, under the enormous
writing of Porthos, a much more delicate hand, which
reminded him of certain letters to Marie Michon, with which
he had been acquainted in his youth. Only the India-rubber
had passed and repassed so often over this writing that it
might have escaped a less practiced eye than that of our
musketeer.
“Bravo! my friend, bravo!” said D’Artagnan.
“And now you know all that you want to know, do you not?”
said Porthos, wheeling about.
“Mordioux! yes, only do me one last favor, dear friend!”
“Speak, I am master here.”
“Do me the pleasure to tell me the name of that gentleman
who is walking yonder.”
“Where, there?”
“Behind the soldiers.”
“Followed by a lackey?”
“Exactly.”
“In company with a mean sort of a fellow, dressed in black?”
“Yes, I mean him.”
“That is M. Getard.”
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“And who is Getard, my friend?”
“He is the architect of the house.”
“Of what house?”
“Of M. Fouquet’s house.”
“Ah! ah!” cried D’Artagnan, “you are of the household of M.
Fouquet, then, Porthos?”
“I! what do you mean by that?” said the topographer,
blushing to the top of his ears.
“Why, you say the house, when speaking of Belle-Isle, as if
you were speaking of the chateau of Pierrefonds.”
Porthos bit his lips. “Belle-Isle, my friend,” said he,
“belongs to M. Fouquet, does it not?”
“Yes, I believe so.”