Athos, when he reached his appointed room, observed through the gratings of his window, walls and roofs; and was told, on inquiry, by Comminges, that he was looking on the back of the pavilion where d’Artagnan was confined.
“Yes, ’tis too true,” said Comminges, “ ’tis almost a prison; but what a singular fancy this is of yours, count—you, who are the very flower of our nobility—to squander your valor and loyalty amongst these upstarts, the Frondists! Really, count, if ever I thought that I had a friend in the ranks of the royal army, it was you. A Frondeur! you, the Comte de la Fère, on the side of Broussel, Blancmesnil and Viole! For shame! you, a Frondeur!”
“On my word of honor,” said Athos, “one must be either a Mazarinist or a Frondeur. For a long time I had these words whispered in my ears, and I chose the latter; at any rate, it is a French word. And now, I am a Frondeur—not of Broussel’s party, nor of Blancmesnil’s, nor am I with Viole; but with the Duc de Beaufort, the Ducs de Bouillon and d’Elbeuf; with princes, not with presidents, councillors and lowborn lawyers. Besides, what a charming outlook it would have been to serve the cardinal! Look at that wall—without a single window—which tells you fine things about Mazarin’s gratitude!”
“Yes,” replied de Comminges, “more especially if it could reveal how Monsieur d’Artagnan for this last week has been anathematizing him.”
“Poor d’Artagnan” said Athos, with the charming melancholy that was one of the traits of his character, “so brave, so good, so terrible to the enemies of those he loves. You have two unruly prisoners there, sir.”
“Unruly,” Comminges smiled; “you wish to terrify me, I suppose. When he came here, Monsieur d’Artagnan provoked and braved the soldiers and inferior officers, in order, I suppose, to have his sword back. That mood lasted some time; but now he’s as gentle as a lamb and sings Gascon songs, which make one die of laughing.”
“And Du Vallon?” asked Athos.
“Ah, he’s quite another sort of person—a formidable gentleman, indeed. The first day he broke all the doors in with a single push of his shoulder; and I expected to see him leave Rueil in the same way as Samson left Gaza. But his temper cooled down, like his friend’s; he not only gets used to his captivity, but jokes about it.”
“So much the better,” said Athos.
“Do you think anything else was to be expected of them?” asked Comminges, who, putting together what Mazarin had said of his prisoners and what the Comte de la Fère had said, began to feel a degree of uneasiness.
Athos, on the other hand, reflected that this recent gentleness of his friends most certainly arose from some plan formed by d’Artagnan. Unwilling to injure them by praising them too highly, he replied: “They? They are two hotheads—the one a Gascon, the other from Picardy; both are easily excited, but they quiet down immediately. You have had a proof of that in what you have just related to me.”
This, too, was the opinion of Comminges, who withdrew somewhat reassured. Athos remained alone in the vast chamber, where, according to the cardinal’s directions, he was treated with all the courtesy due to a nobleman. He awaited Mazarin’s promised visit to get some light on his present situation.
LXXXIII
Strength and Sagacity
Now let us pass the orangery to the hunting lodge. At the extremity of the courtyard, where, close to a portico formed of Ionic columns, were the dog kennels, rose an oblong building, the pavilion of the orangery, a half circle, enclosing the court of honor. It was in this pavilion, on the ground floor, that d’Artagnan and Porthos were confined, suffering interminable hours of imprisonment in a manner suitable to each different temperament.
D’Artagnan was pacing to and fro like a caged tiger; with dilated eyes, growling as he paced along by the bars of a window looking upon the yard of servant’s offices.
Porthos was ruminating over an excellent dinner he had just demolished.
The one seemed to be deprived of reason, yet he was meditating. The other seemed to meditate, yet he was more than half asleep. But his sleep was a nightmare, which might be guessed by the incoherent manner in which he sometimes snored and sometimes snorted.
“Look,” said d’Artagnan, “day is declining. It must be nearly four o’clock. We have been in this place nearly eighty-three hours.”
“Hem!” muttered Porthos, with a kind of pretense of answering.
“Did you hear, eternal sleeper?” cried d’Artagnan, irritated that anyone could doze during the day, when he had the greatest difficulty in sleeping during the night.
“What?” said Porthos.
“I say we have been here eighty-three hours.”
“ ’Tis your fault,” answered Porthos.
“How, my fault?”
“Yes, I offered you escape.”
“By pulling out a bar and pushing down a door?”
“Certainly.”
“Porthos, men like us can’t go out from here purely and simply.”
“Faith!” said Porthos, “as for me, I could go out with that purity and that simplicity which it seems to me you despise too much.”
D’Artagnan shrugged his shoulders.
“And besides,” he said, “going out of this chamber isn’t all.”
“Dear friend,” said Porthos, “you appear to be in a somewhat better humor today than you were yesterday. Explain to me why going out of this chamber isn’t everything.”
“Because, having neither arms nor password, we shouldn’t take fifty steps in the court without knocking against a sentinel.”
“Very well,” said Porthos, “we will kill the sentinel and we shall have his arms.”
“Yes, but before we can kill him—and he will be hard to kill, that Swiss—he will shriek out and the whole picket will come, and we shall be taken like foxes, we, who are lions, and thrown into some dungeon, where we shall not even have the consolation of seeing this frightful gray sky of Rueil, which no more resembles
