D’Artagnan began to smile.
“Ah! you think so, do you?”
And he took his friend along the alley, where a number of
tracks like those which had trampled down the flowerbeds,
were visible.
“Here are the horse’s hoofs again, it seems, Athos,” he said
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carelessly.
“Yes, indeed, the marks are recent.”
“Quite so,” replied the lieutenant.
“Who went out this morning?” Athos asked, uneasily. “Has any
horse got loose?”
“Not likely,” answered the Gascon; “these marks are
regular.”
“Where is Raoul?” asked Athos; “how is it that I have not
seen him?”
“Hush!” exclaimed D’Artagnan, putting his finger on his
lips; and he related what he had seen, watching Athos all
the while.
“Ah, he’s gone to Blois; the poor boy —- ”
“Wherefore?”
“Ah, to inquire after the little La Valliere; she has
sprained her foot, you know.”
“You think he has?”
“I am sure of it,” said Athos; “don’t you see that Raoul is
in love?”
“Indeed! with whom — with a child seven years old?”
“Dear friend, at Raoul’s age the heart is so expansive that
it must encircle one object or another, fancied or real.
Well, his love is half real, half fanciful. She is the
prettiest little creature in the world, with flaxen hair,
blue eyes, — at once saucy and languishing.”
“But what say you to Raoul’s fancy?”
“Nothing — I laugh at Raoul; but this first desire of the
heart is imperious. I remember, just at his age, how deep in
love I was with a Grecian statue which our good king, then
Henry IV., gave my father, insomuch that I was mad with
grief when they told me that the story of Pygmalion was
nothing but a fable.”
“It is mere want of occupation. You do not make Raoul work,
so he takes his own way of employing himself.”
“Exactly; therefore I think of sending him away from here.”
“You will be wise to do so.”
“No doubt of it; but it will break his heart. So long as
three or four years ago he used to adorn and adore his
little idol, whom he will some day fall in love with in
right earnest if he remains here. The parents of little La
Valliere have for a long time perceived and been amused at
it; now they begin to look concerned.”
“Nonsense! However, Raoul must be diverted from this fancy.
Send him away or you will never make a man of him.”
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“I think I shall send him to Paris.”
“So!” thought D’Artagnan, and it seemed to him that the
moment for attack had arrived.
“Suppose,” he said, “we roughly chalk out a career for this
young man. I wish to consult you about some thing.”
“Do so.”
“Do you think it is time for us to enter the service?”
“But are you not still in the service — you, D’Artagnan?”
“I mean active service. Our former life, has it still no
attractions for you? would you not be happy to begin anew in
my society and in that of Porthos, the exploits of our
youth?”
“Do you propose to me to do so, D’Artagnan?”
“Decidedly and honestly.”
“On whose side?” asked Athos, fixing his clear, benevolent
glance on the countenance of the Gascon.
“Ah, devil take it, you speak in earnest —- ”
“And must have a definite answer. Listen, D’Artagnan. There
is but one person, or rather, one cause, to whom a man like
me can be useful — that of the king.”
“Exactly,” answered the musketeer.
“Yes, but let us understand each other,” returned Athos,
seriously. “If by the cause of the king you mean that of
Monsieur de Mazarin, we do not understand each other.”
“I don’t say exactly,” answered the Gascon, confused.
“Come, D’Artagnan, don’t let us play a sidelong game; your
hesitation, your evasion, tells me at once on whose side you
are; for that party no one dares openly to recruit, and when
people recruit for it, it is with averted eyes and humble
voice.”
“Ah! my dear Athos!”
“You know that I am not alluding to you; you are the pearl