“Mouston,” said Porthos, “saddle Vulcan and Bayard.”
“And for myself, monsieur, shall I saddle Rustaud?”
“No, take a more stylish horse, Phoebus or Superbe; we are
going with some ceremony.”
“Ah,” said Mousqueton, breathing more freely, “you are only
going, then, to make a visit?”
“Oh! yes, of course, Mouston; nothing else. But to avoid
risk, put the pistols in the holsters. You will find mine on
my saddle, already loaded.”
Mouston breathed a sigh; he couldn’t understand visits of
ceremony made under arms.
“Indeed,” said Porthos, looking complacently at his old
lackey as he went away, “you are right, D’Artagnan; Mouston
will do; Mouston has a very fine appearance.”
D’Artagnan smiled.
“But you, my friend — are you not going to change your
dress?”
“No, I shall go as I am. This traveling dress will serve to
show the cardinal my haste to obey his commands.”
They set out on Vulcan and Bayard, followed by Mousqueton on
Phoebus, and arrived at the Palais Royal at about a quarter
to seven. The streets were crowded, for it was the day of
Pentecost, and the crowd looked in wonder at these two
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cavaliers; one as fresh as if he had come out of a bandbox,
the other so covered with dust that he looked as if he had
but just come off a field of battle.
Mousqueton also attracted attention; and as the romance of
Don Quixote was then the fashion, they said that he was
Sancho, who, after having lost one master, had found two.
On reaching the palace, D’Artagnan sent to his eminence the
letter in which he had been ordered to return without delay.
He was soon ordered to the presence of the cardinal.
“Courage!” he whispered to Porthos, as they proceeded. “Do
not be intimidated. Believe me, the eye of the eagle is
closed forever. We have only the vulture to deal with. Hold
yourself as bolt upright as on the day of the bastion of St.
Gervais, and do not bow too low to this Italian; that might
give him a poor idea of you.”
“Good!” answered Porthos. “Good!”
Mazarin was in his study, working at a list of pensions and
benefices, of which he was trying to reduce the number. He
saw D’Artagnan and Porthos enter with internal pleasure, yet
showed no joy in his countenance.
“Ah! you, is it? Monsieur le lieutenant, you have been very
prompt. ‘Tis well. Welcome to ye.”
“Thanks, my lord. Here I am at your eminence’s service, as
well as Monsieur du Vallon, one of my old friends, who used
to conceal his nobility under the name of Porthos.”
Porthos bowed to the cardinal.
“A magnificent cavalier,” remarked Mazarin.
Porthos turned his head to the right and to the left, and
drew himself up with a movement full of dignity.
“The best swordsman in the kingdom, my lord,” said
D’Artagnan.
Porthos bowed to his friend.
Mazarin was as fond of fine soldiers as, in later times,
Frederick of Prussia used to be. He admired the strong
hands, the broad shoulders and the steady eye of Porthos. He
seemed to see before him the salvation of his administration
and of the kingdom, sculptured in flesh and bone. He
remembered that the old association of musketeers was
composed of four persons.
“And your two other friends?” he asked.
Porthos opened his mouth, thinking it a good opportunity to
put in a word in his turn; D’Artagnan checked him by a
glance from the corner of his eye.
“They are prevented at this moment, but will join us later.”
Mazarin coughed a little.
“And this gentleman, being disengaged, takes to the service
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willingly?” he asked.
“Yes, my lord, and from pure devotion to the cause, for
Monsieur de Bracieux is rich.”
“Rich!” said Mazarin, whom that single word always inspired
with a great respect.
“Fifty thousand francs a year,” said Porthos.
These were the first words he had spoken.
“From pure zeal?” resumed Mazarin, with his artful smile;
“from pure zeal and devotion then?”
“My lord has, perhaps, no faith in those words?” said
D’Artagnan.
“Have you, Monsieur le Gascon?” asked Mazarin, supporting