“The devil!” said d’Artagnan, stopping at this point of the demonstration; “why, this is a complete system, Porthos.”
“Entirely,” said Porthos. “Continue.”
“No; I have read enough of it; but, since it is you, my dear Porthos, who direct the works, what need have you of setting down your system so formally in writing?”
“Oh! my dear friend, death!”
“How! death?”
“Why, we are all mortal, are we not?”
“That is true,” said d’Artagnan; “you have a reply for everything, my friend.” And he replaced the plan upon the stone.
But however short the time he had the plan in his hands, d’Artagnan had been able to distinguish, under the enormous writing of Porthos, a much more delicate hand, which reminded him of certain letters to Marie Michon, with which he had been acquainted in his youth. Only the India-rubber had passed and repassed so often over this writing that it might have escaped a less practiced eye than that of our musketeer.
“Bravo! my friend, bravo!” said d’Artagnan.
“And now you know all that you want to know, do you not?” said Porthos, wheeling about.
“Mordioux! yes, only do me one last favor, dear friend!”
“Speak, I am master here.”
“Do me the pleasure to tell me the name of that gentleman who is walking yonder.”
“Where, there?”
“Behind the soldiers.”
“Followed by a lackey?”
“Exactly.”
“In company with a mean sort of fellow, dressed in black?”
“Yes, I mean him.”
“That is M. Gétard.”
“And who is Gétard, my friend?”
“He is the architect of the house.”
“Of what house?”
“Of M. Fouquet’s house.”
“Ah! ah!” cried d’Artagnan, “you are of the household of M. Fouquet, then, Porthos?”
“I! what do you mean by that?” said the topographer, blushing to the top of his ears.
“Why, you say the house, when speaking of Belle-Isle, as if you were speaking of the château of Pierrefonds.”
Porthos bit his lip. “Belle-Isle, my friend,” said he, “belongs to M. Fouquet, does it not?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
“As Pierrefonds belongs to me?”
“I told you I believed so; there are no two words to that.”
“Did you ever see a man there who is accustomed to walk about with a ruler in his hand?”
“No; but I might have seen him there, if he really walked there.”
“Well, that gentleman is M. Boulingrin.”
“Who is M. Boulingrin?”
“Now we are coming to it. If, when this gentleman is walking with a ruler in his hand, anyone should ask me—‘who is M. Boulingrin?’ I should reply: ‘He is the architect of the house.’ Well! M. Gétard is the Boulingrin of M. Fouquet. But he has nothing to do with the fortifications, which are my department alone; do you understand? mine, absolutely mine.”
“Ah! Porthos,” cried d’Artagnan, letting his arms fall as a conquered man gives up his sword; “ah! my friend, you are not only a Herculean topographer, you are, still further, a dialectician of the first water.”
“Is it not powerfully reasoned?” said Porthos: and he puffed and blew like the conger which d’Artagnan had let slip from his hand.
“And now,” said d’Artagnan, “that shabby-looking man, who accompanies M. Gétard, is he also of the household of M. Fouquet?”
“Oh! yes,” said Porthos, with contempt; “it is one M. Jupenet, or Juponet, a sort of poet.”
“Who is come to establish himself here?”
“I believe so.”
“I thought M. Fouquet had poets enough, yonder—Scudéry, Loret, Pélisson, La Fontaine? If I must tell you the truth, Porthos, that poet disgraces you.”
“Eh!—my friend; but what saves us is that he is not here as a poet.”
“As what, then, is he?”
“As printer. And you make me remember, I have a word to say to the cuistre.”
“Say it, then.”
Porthos made a sign to Jupenet, who perfectly recollected d’Artagnan, and did not care to come nearer; which naturally produced another sign from Porthos. This was so imperative, he was obliged to obey. As he approached, “Come hither!” said Porthos. “You only landed yesterday and you have begun your tricks already.”
“How so, Monsieur le Baron?” asked Jupenet, trembling.
“Your press was groaning all night, Monsieur,” said Porthos, “and you prevented my sleeping, corne de boeuf!”
“Monsieur—” objected Jupenet, timidly.
“You have nothing yet to print: therefore you have no occasion to set your press going. What did you print last night?”
“Monsieur, a light poem of my own composition.”
“Light! no, no, Monsieur; the press groaned pitifully beneath it. Let it not happen again. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“You promise me?”
“I do, Monsieur!”
“Very well; this time I pardon you. Adieu!”
The poet retreated as humbly as he had approached.
“Well, now we have combed that fellow’s head, let us breakfast.”
“Yes,” replied d’Artagnan, “let us breakfast.”
“Only,” said Porthos, “I beg you to observe, my friend, that we only have two hours for our repast.”
“What would you have? We will try to make two hours suffice. But why have you only two hours?”
“Because it is high tide at one o’clock, and, with the tide, I am going to Vannes. But, as I shall return tomorrow, my dear friend, you can stay here; you shall be master; I have a good cook and a good cellar.”
“No,” interrupted d’Artagnan, “better than that.”
“What?”
“You are going to Vannes, you say?”
“To a certainty.”
“To see Aramis?”
“Yes.”
“Well! I came from Paris on purpose to see Aramis.”
“That’s true.”
“I will go with you then.”
“Do; that’s the thing.”
“Only, I ought to have seen Aramis first, and you after. But man proposes, and God disposes. I have begun with you, and will finish with Aramis.”
“Very well!”
“And in how many hours can you go from here to Vannes?”
“Oh! pardieu! in six hours. Three hours by sea to Sarzeau, three hours by road from Sarzeau to Vannes.”
“How convenient that is! Being so near to the bishopric; do you often go to Vannes?”
“Yes; once a week. But, stop till I get my plan.”
Porthos picked up his plan, folded it carefully, and engulfed it in
