matters differently, D’Artagnan, and think otherwise. I will
not attempt to argue with you, but I blame you.”
“Heyday!” cried D’Artagnan, “what matters it to me, after
all, if Cromwell, who’s an Englishman, revolts against his
king, who is a Scotchman? I am myself a Frenchman. I have
nothing to do with these things — why hold me responsible?”
“Yes,” said Porthos.
“Because all gentlemen are brothers, because you are a
gentleman, because the kings of all countries are the first
among gentlemen, because the blind populace, ungrateful and
brutal, always takes pleasure in pulling down what is above
them. And you, you, D’Artagnan, a man sprung from the
ancient nobility of France, bearing an honorable name,
carrying a good sword, have helped to give up a king to
beersellers, shopkeepers, and wagoners. Ah! D’Artagnan!
perhaps you have done your duty as a soldier, but as a
gentleman, I say that you are very culpable.”
D’Artagnan was chewing the stalk of a flower, unable to
reply and thoroughly uncomfortable; for when turned from the
eyes of Athos he encountered those of Aramis.
“And you, Porthos,” continued the count, as if in
consideration for D’Artagnan’s embarrassment, “you, the best
heart, the best friend, the best soldier that I know — you,
with a soul that makes you worthy of a birth on the steps of
a throne, and who, sooner or later, must receive your reward
from an intelligent king — you, my dear Porthos, you, a
gentleman in manners, in tastes and in courage, you are as
culpable as D’Artagnan.”
Porthos blushed, but with pleasure rather than with
confusion; and yet, bowing his head, as if humiliated, he
said:
“Yes, yes, my dear count, I feel that you are right.”
Athos arose.
“Come,” he said, stretching out his hand to D’Artagnan,
“come, don’t be sullen, my dear son, for I have said all
this to you, if not in the tone, at least with the feelings
of a father. It would have been easier to me merely to have
thanked you for preserving my life and not to have uttered a
word of all this.”
“Doubtless, doubtless, Athos. But here it is: you have
sentiments, the devil knows what, such as every one can’t
entertain. Who could suppose that a sensible man could leave
his house, France, his ward — a charming youth, for we saw
him in the camp — to fly to the aid of a rotten, worm-eaten
royalty, which is going to crumble one of these days like an
old hovel. The sentiments you air are certainly fine, so
fine that they are superhuman.”
“However that may be, D’Artagnan,” replied Athos, without
falling into the snare which his Gascon friend had prepared
for him by an appeal to his parental love, “however that may
be, you know in the bottom of your heart that it is true;
but I am wrong to dispute with my master. D’Artagnan, I am
your prisoner — treat me as such.”
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“Ah! pardieu!” said D’Artagnan, “you know you will not be my
prisoner very long.”
“No,” said Aramis, “they will doubtless treat us like the
prisoners of the Philipghauts.”
“And how were they treated?” asked D’Artagnan.
“Why,” said Aramis, “one-half were hanged and the other half
were shot.”
“Well, I,” said D’Artagnan “I answer that while there
remains a drop of blood in my veins you will be neither
hanged nor shot. Sang Diou! let them come on! Besides — do
you see that door, Athos?”
“Yes; what then?”
“Well, you can go out by that door whenever you please; for
from this moment you are free as the air.”
“I recognize you there, my brave D’Artagnan,” replied Athos;
“but you are no longer our masters. That door is guarded,
D’Artagnan; you know that.”
“Very well, you will force it,” said Porthos. “There are
only a dozen men at the most.”
“That would be nothing for us four; it is too much for us
two. No, divided as we now are, we must perish. See the
fatal example: on the Vendomois road, D’Artagnan, you so
brave, and you, Porthos, so valiant and so strong — you