“That will do for us. See to these horses. Polish up or make
some one else polish my arms. Then take pistols with thee
and a hunting-knife.”
“Are we then going to travel, my lord?” asked Mousqueton,
rather uneasy.
“Something better still, Mouston.”
“An expedition, sir?” asked the steward, whose roses began
to change into lilies.
“We are going to return to the service, Mouston,” replied
Porthos, still trying to restore his mustache to the
military curl it had long lost.
“Into the service — the king’s service?” Mousqueton
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trembled; even his fat, smooth cheeks shook as he spoke, and
he looked at D’Artagnan with an air of reproach; he
staggered, and his voice was almost choked.
“Yes and no. We shall serve in a campaign, seek out all
sorts of adventures — return, in short, to our former
life.”
These last words fell on Mousqueton like a thunderbolt. It
was those very terrible old days that made the present so
excessively delightful, and the blow was so great he rushed
out, overcome, and forgot to shut the door.
The two friends remained alone to speak of the future and to
build castles in the air. The good wine which Mousqueton had
placed before them traced out in glowing drops to D’Artagnan
a fine perspective, shining with quadruples and pistoles,
and showed to Porthos a blue ribbon and a ducal mantle; they
were, in fact, asleep on the table when the servants came to
light them to their bed.
Mousqueton was, however, somewhat consoled by D’Artagnan, who
the next day told him that in all probability war would
always be carried on in the heart of Paris and within reach
of the Chateau du Vallon, which was near Corbeil, or
Bracieux, which was near Melun, and of Pierrefonds, which
was between Compiegne and Villars-Cotterets.
“But — formerly — it appears,” began Mousqueton timidly.
“Oh!” said D’Artagnan, “we don’t now make war as we did
formerly. To-day it’s a sort of diplomatic arrangement; ask
Planchet.”
Mousqueton inquired, therefore, the state of the case of his
old friend, who confirmed the statement of D’Artagnan.
“But,” he added, “in this war prisoners stand a chance of
being hung.”
“The deuce they do!” said Mousqueton; “I think I should like
the siege of Rochelle better than this war, then!”
Porthos, meantime, asked D’Artagnan to give him his
instructions how to proceed on his journey.
“Four days,” replied his friend, “are necessary to reach
Blois; one day to rest there; three or four days to return
to Paris. Set out, therefore, in a week, with your suite,
and go to the Hotel de la Chevrette, Rue Tiquetonne, and
there await me.”
“That’s agreed,” said Porthos.
“As to myself, I shall go around to see Athos; for though I
don’t think his aid worth much, one must with one’s friends
observe all due politeness,” said D’Artagnan.
The friends then took leave of each other on the very border
of the estate of Pierrefonds, to which Porthos escorted his
friend.
“At least,” D’Artagnan said to himself, as he took the road
to Villars-Cotterets, “at least I shall not be alone in my
undertaking. That devil, Porthos, is a man of prodigious
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strength; still, if Athos joins us, well, we shall be three
of us to laugh at Aramis, that little coxcomb with his too
good luck.”
At Villars-Cotterets he wrote to the cardinal:
“My Lord, — I have already one man to offer to your
eminence, and he is well worth twenty men. I am just setting
out for Blois. The Comte de la Fere inhabits the Castle of
Bragelonne, in the environs of that city.”
13
Two Angelic Faces.
The road was long, but the horses upon which D’Artagnan and
Planchet rode had been refreshed in the well supplied
stables of the Lord of Bracieux; the master and servant rode
side by side, conversing as they went, for D’Artagnan had by
degrees thrown off the master and Planchet had entirely
ceased to assume the manners of a servant. He had been
raised by circumstances to the rank of a confidant to his