“M. d’Artagnan does not get any older,” said the keeper of the harriers to his colleague the falconer; “with ten years more to carry than either of us, he has the seat of a young man on horseback.”
“That is true,” replied the falconer. “I don’t see any change in him for the last twenty years.”
But this officer was mistaken; d’Artagnan in the last four years had lived a dozen. Age had printed its pitiless claws at each angle of his eyes; his brow was bald; his hands, formerly brown and nervous, were getting white, as if the blood had half forgotten them.
D’Artagnan accosted the officers with the shade of affability which distinguishes superiors, and received in turn for his courtesy two most respectful bows.
“Ah! what a lucky chance to see you here, Monsieur d’Artagnan!” cried the falconer.
“It is rather I who should say that, messieurs,” replied the captain, “for nowadays, the king makes more frequent use of his musketeers than of his falcons.”
“Ah! it is not as it was in the good old times,” sighed the falconer. “Do you remember, Monsieur d’Artagnan, when the late king flew the pie25 in the vineyards beyond Beaugence? Ah! dame! you were not the captain of the Musketeers at that time, Monsieur d’Artagnan.”
“And you were nothing but under-corporal of the tiercelets,” replied d’Artagnan, laughing. “Never mind that, it was a good time, seeing that it is always a good time when we are young. Good day, Monsieur the keeper of the harriers.”
“You do me honor, Monsieur le Comte,” said the latter. D’Artagnan made no reply. The title of comte had hardly struck him; d’Artagnan had been a comte four years.
“Are you not very much fatigued with the long journey you have taken, Monsieur le Capitaine?” continued the falconer. “It must be full two hundred leagues from hence to Pignerol.”
“Two hundred and sixty to go, and as many to return,” said d’Artagnan, quietly.
“And,” said the falconer, “is he well?”
“Who?” asked d’Artagnan.
“Why, poor M. Fouquet,” continued the falconer, in a low voice. The keeper of the harriers had prudently withdrawn.
“No,” replied d’Artagnan, “the poor man frets terribly; he cannot comprehend how imprisonment can be a favor; he says that parliament absolved him by banishing him, and banishment is, or should be, liberty. He cannot imagine that they had sworn his death, and that to save his life from the claws of parliament was to be under too much obligation to Heaven.”
“Ah! yes; the poor man had a close chance of the scaffold,” replied the falconer; “it is said that M. Colbert had given orders to the governor of the Bastile, and that the execution was ordered.”
“Enough!” said d’Artagnan, pensively, and with a view of cutting short the conversation.
“Yes,” said the keeper of the harriers, drawing towards them, “M. Fouquet is now at Pignerol; he has richly deserved it. He had the good fortune to be conducted there by you; he robbed the king sufficiently.”
D’Artagnan launched at the master of the dogs one of his crossest looks, and said to him, “Monsieur, if anyone told me you had eaten your dogs’ meat, not only would I refuse to believe it; but still more, if you were condemned to the lash or to jail for it, I should pity you and would not allow people to speak ill of you. And yet, Monsieur, honest man as you may be, I assure you that you are not more so than poor M. Fouquet was.”
After having undergone this sharp rebuke, the keeper of the harriers hung his head, and allowed the falconer to get two steps in advance of him nearer to d’Artagnan.
“He is content,” said the falconer, in a low voice, to the musketeer; “we all know that harriers are in fashion nowadays; if he were a falconer he would not talk in that way.”
D’Artagnan smiled in a melancholy manner at seeing this great political question resolved by the discontent of such humble interest. He for a moment ran over in his mind the glorious existence of the surintendant, the crumbling of his fortunes, and the melancholy death that awaited him; and to conclude, “Did M. Fouquet love falconry?” said he.
“Oh, passionately, Monsieur!” repeated the falconer, with an accent of bitter regret and a sigh that was the funeral oration of Fouquet.
D’Artagnan allowed the ill-humor of the one and the regret of the other to pass, and continued to advance. They could already catch glimpses of the huntsmen at the issue of the wood, the feathers of the outriders passing like shooting stars across the clearings, and the white horses skirting the bosky thickets looking like illuminated apparitions.
“But,” resumed d’Artagnan, “will the sport last long? Pray, give us a good swift bird, for I am very tired. Is it a heron or a swan?”
“Both, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said the falconer; “but you need not be alarmed; the king is not much of a sportsman; he does not take the field on his own account, he only wishes to amuse the ladies.”
The words “to amuse the ladies” were so strongly accented they
