In fact, tears rolled down his cheeks.
Porthos turned aside, in order not to show by his honest
round face what was passing in his mind.
“Deuce take it!” cried D’Artagnan, more moved than he had
been for a long time, “don’t despair, my friend, if you have
not received any letters from the count, we have received
one.”
“Oh, really!” cried Raoul.
“And a comforting one, too,” added D’Artagnan, seeing the
delight that his intelligence gave the young man.
“Have you it?” asked Raoul
“Yes — that is, I had it,” repined the Gascon, making
believe to find it. “Wait, it ought to be there in my
pocket; it speaks of his return, does it not, Porthos?”
All Gascon as he was, D’Artagnan could not bear alone the
weight of that falsehood.
“Yes,” replied Porthos, coughing.
“Eh, give it to me!” said the young man.
“Eh! I read it a little while since. Can I have lost it? Ah!
confound it! yes, my pocket has a hole in it.”
“Oh, yes, Monsieur Raoul!” said Mousqueton, “the letter was
very consoling. These gentlemen read it to me and I wept for
joy.”
“But at any rate, you know where he is, Monsieur
d’Artagnan?” asked Raoul, somewhat comforted.
“Ah! that’s the thing!” replied the Gascon. “Undoubtedly I
know it, but it is a mystery.”
“Not to me, I hope?”
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“No, not to you, so I am going to tell you where he is.”
Porthos devoured D’Artagnan with wondering eyes.
“Where the devil shall I say that he is, so that he cannot
try to rejoin him?” thought D’Artagnan.
“Well, where is he, sir?” asked Raoul, in a soft and coaxing
voice.
“He is at Constantinople.”
“Among the Turks!” exclaimed Raoul, alarmed. “Good heavens!
how can you tell me that?”
“Does that alarm you?” cried D’Artagnan. “Pooh! what are the
Turks to such men as the Comte de la Fere and the Abbe
d’Herblay?”
“Ah, his friend is with him?” said Raoul. “That comforts me
a little.”
“Has he wit or not — this demon D’Artagnan?” said Porthos,
astonished at his friend’s deception.
“Now, sir,” said D’Artagnan, wishing to change the
conversation, “here are fifty pistoles that the count has
sent you by the same courier. I suppose you have no more
money and that they will be welcome.”
“I have still twenty pistoles, sir.”
“Well, take them; that makes seventy.”
“And if you wish for more,” said Porthos, putting his hand
to his pocket —-
“Thank you, sir,” replied Raoul, blushing; “thank you a
thousand times.”
At this moment Olivain appeared. “Apropos,” said D’Artagnan,
loud enough for the servant to hear him, “are you satisfied
with Olivain?”
“Yes, in some respects, tolerably well.”
Olivain pretended to have heard nothing and entered the
tent.
“What fault do you find with the fellow?”
“He is a glutton.”
“Oh, sir!” cried Olivain, reappearing at this accusation.
“And a little bit of a thief.”
“Oh, sir! oh!”
“And, more especially, a notorious coward.”
“Oh, oh! sir! you really vilify me!” cried Olivain.
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“The deuce!” cried D’Artagnan. “Pray learn, Monsieur
Olivain, that people like us are not to be served by
cowards. Rob your master, eat his sweetmeats, and drink his
wine; but, by Jove! don’t be a coward, or I shall cut off
your ears. Look at Monsieur Mouston, see the honorable
wounds he has received, observe how his habitual valor has
given dignity to his countenance.”
Mousqueton was in the third heaven and would have embraced
D’Artagnan had he dared; meanwhile he resolved to sacrifice
his life for him on the next occasion that presented itself.
“Send away that fellow, Raoul,” said the Gascon; “for if
he’s a coward he will disgrace thee some day.”
“Monsieur says I am coward,” cried Olivain, “because he
wanted the other day to fight a cornet in Grammont’s
regiment and I refused to accompany him.”
“Monsieur Olivain, a lackey ought never to disobey,” said
D’Artagnan, sternly; then taking him aside, he whispered to
him: “Thou hast done right; thy master was in the wrong;
here’s a crown for thee, but should he ever be insulted and