“What difference does that make?” said Porthos. “We shall go out all the same.”
“Do you know, my dear fellow, why master pastrycooks never work with their hands?”
“No,” said Porthos, “but I should be glad to be informed.”
“It is because in the presence of their pupils they fear that some of their tarts or creams may turn out badly cooked.”
“What then?”
“Why, then they would be laughed at, and a master pastrycook must never be laughed at.”
“And what have master pastrycooks to do with us?”
“We ought, in our adventures, never to be defeated or give anyone a chance to laugh at us. In England, lately, we failed, we were beaten, and that is a blemish on our reputation.”
“By whom, then, were we beaten?” asked Porthos.
“By Mordaunt.”
“Yes, but we have drowned Monsieur Mordaunt.”
“That is true, and that will redeem us a little in the eyes of posterity, if posterity ever looks at us. But listen, Porthos: though Monsieur Mordaunt was a man not to be despised, Mazarin is not less strong than he, and we shall not easily succeed in drowning him. We must, therefore, watch and play a close game; for,” he added with a sigh, “we two are equal, perhaps, to eight others; but we are not equal to the four that you know of.”
“That is true,” said Porthos, echoing d’Artagnan’s sigh.
“Well, Porthos, follow my examples; walk back and forth till some news of our friends reaches us or till we are visited by a good idea. But don’t sleep as you do all the time; nothing dulls the intellect like sleep. As to what may lie before us, it is perhaps less serious than we at first thought. I don’t believe that Monsieur de Mazarin thinks of cutting off our heads, for heads are not taken off without previous trial; a trial would make a noise, and a noise would get the attention of our friends, who would check the operations of Monsieur de Mazarin.”
“How well you reason!” said Porthos, admiringly.
“Well, yes, pretty well,” replied d’Artagnan; “and besides, you see, if they put us on trial, if they cut off our heads, they must meanwhile either keep us here or transfer us elsewhere.”
“Yes, that is inevitable,” said Porthos.
“Well, it is impossible but that Master Aramis, that keen-scented bloodhound, and Athos, that wise and prudent nobleman, will discover our retreat. Then, believe me, it will be time to act.”
“Yes, we will wait. We can wait the more contentedly, that it is not absolutely bad here, but for one thing, at least.”
“What is that?”
“Did you observe, d’Artagnan, that three days running they have brought us braised mutton?”
“No; but if it occurs a fourth time I shall complain of it, so never mind.”
“And then I feel the loss of my house, ’tis a long time since I visited my castles.”
“Forget them for a time; we shall return to them, unless Mazarin razes them to the ground.”
“Do you think that likely?”
“No, the other cardinal would have done so, but this one is too mean a fellow to risk it.”
“You reconcile me, d’Artagnan.”
“Well, then, assume a cheerful manner, as I do; we must joke with the guards, we must gain the goodwill of the soldiers, since we can’t corrupt them. Try, Porthos, to please them more than you are wont to do when they are under our windows. Thus far you have done nothing but show them your fist; and the more respectable your fist is, Porthos, the less attractive it is. Ah, I would give much to have five hundred louis, only.”
“So would I,” said Porthos, unwilling to be behind d’Artagnan in generosity; “I would give as much as a hundred pistoles.”
The two prisoners were at this point of their conversation when Comminges entered, preceded by a sergeant and two men, who brought supper in a basket with two handles, filled with basins and plates.
“What!” exclaimed Porthos, “mutton again?”
“My dear Monsieur de Comminges,” said d’Artagnan, “you will find that my friend, Monsieur du Vallon, will go to the most fatal lengths if Cardinal Mazarin continues to provide us with this sort of meat; mutton every day.”
“I declare,” said Porthos, “I shall eat nothing if they do not take it away.”
“Remove the mutton,” cried Comminges; “I wish Monsieur du Vallon to sup well, more especially as I have news to give him that will improve his appetite.”
“Is Mazarin dead?” asked Porthos.
“No; I am sorry to tell you he is perfectly well.”
“So much the worse,” said Porthos.
“What is that news?” asked d’Artagnan. “News in prison is a fruit so rare that I trust, Monsieur de Comminges, you will excuse my impatience—the more eager since you have given us to understand that the news is good.”
“Should you be glad to hear that the Comte de la Fère is well?” asked de Comminges.
D’Artagnan’s penetrating gray eyes were opened to the utmost.
“Glad!” he cried; “I should be more than glad! Happy—beyond measure!”
“Well, I am desired by him to give you his compliments and to say that he is in good health.”
D’Artagnan almost leaped with joy. A quick glance conveyed his thought to Porthos: “If Athos knows where we are, if he opens communication with us, before long Athos will act.”
Porthos was not very quick to understand the language of glances, but now since the name of Athos had suggested to him the same idea, he understood.
“Do you say,” asked the Gascon, timidly, “that the Comte de la Fère has commissioned you to give his compliments to Monsieur du Vallon and myself?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you have seen him?”
“Certainly I have.”
“Where? if I may ask without indiscretion.”
“Near here,” replied de Comminges, smiling; “so near that if the windows which look on the orangery were
