He is wandering about the environs of the castle, thought d’Artagnan. Then he said aloud: “You met him, I dare say, in the park—hunting, perhaps?”
“No; nearer, nearer still. Look, behind this wall,” said de Comminges, knocking against the wall.
“Behind this wall? What is there, then, behind this wall? I was brought here by night, so devil take me if I know where I am.”
“Well,” said Comminges, “suppose one thing.”
“I will suppose anything you please.”
“Suppose there were a window in this wall.”
“Well?”
“From that window you would see Monsieur de la Fère at his.”
“The count, then, is in the château?”
“Yes.”
“For what reason?”
“The same as yourself.”
“Athos—a prisoner?”
“You know well,” replied de Comminges, “that there are no prisoners at Rueil, because there is no prison.”
“Don’t let us play upon words, sir. Athos has been arrested.”
“Yesterday, at Saint Germain, as he came out from the presence of the queen.”
The arms of d’Artagnan fell powerless by his side. One might have supposed him thunderstruck; a paleness ran like a cloud over his dark skin, but disappeared immediately.
“A prisoner?” he reiterated.
“A prisoner,” repeated Porthos, quite dejected.
Suddenly d’Artagnan looked up and in his eyes there was a gleam which scarcely even Porthos observed; but it died away and he appeared more sorrowful than before.
“Come, come,” said Comminges, who, since d’Artagnan, on the day of Broussel’s arrest, had saved him from the hands of the Parisians, had entertained a real affection for him, “don’t be unhappy; I never thought of bringing you bad news. Laugh at the chance which has brought your friend near to you and Monsieur du Vallon, instead of being in the depths of despair about it.”
But d’Artagnan was still in a desponding mood.
“And how did he look?” asked Porthos, who, perceiving that d’Artagnan had allowed the conversation to drop, profited by it to put in a word or two.
“Very well, indeed, sir,” replied Comminges; “at first, like you, he seemed distressed; but when he heard that the cardinal was going to pay him a visit this very evening—”
“Ah!” cried d’Artagnan, “the cardinal is about to visit the Comte de la Fère?”
“Yes; and the count desired me to tell you that he should take advantage of this visit to plead for you and for himself.”
“Ah! our dear count!” said d’Artagnan.
“A fine thing, indeed!” grunted Porthos. “A great favor! Zounds! Monsieur the Comte de la Fère, whose family is allied to the Montmorency and the Rohan, is easily the equal of Monsieur de Mazarin.”
“No matter,” said d’Artagnan, in his most wheedling tone. “On reflection, my dear Du Vallon, it is a great honor for the Comte de la Fère, and gives good reason to hope. In fact, it seems to me so great an honor for a prisoner that I think Monsieur de Comminges must be mistaken.”
“What? I am mistaken?”
“Monsieur de Mazarin will not come to visit the Comte de la Fère, but the Comte de la Fère will be sent for to visit him.”
“No, no, no,” said Comminges, who made a point of having the facts appear exactly as they were, “I clearly understood what the cardinal said to me. He will come and visit the Comte de la Fère.”
D’Artagnan tried to gather from the expression of his eyes whether Porthos understood the importance of that visit, but Porthos did not even look toward him.
“It is, then, the cardinal’s custom to walk in his orangery?” asked d’Artagnan.
“Every evening he shuts himself in there. That, it seems, is where he meditates on state affairs.”
“In that case,” said d’Artagnan, “I begin to believe that Monsieur de la Fère will receive the visit of his Eminence; he will, of course, have an escort.”
“Yes—two soldiers.”
“And will he talk thus of affairs in presence of two strangers?”
“The soldiers are Swiss, who understand only German. Besides, according to all probability they will wait at the door.”
D’Artagnan made a violent effort over himself to keep his face from being too expressive.
“Let the cardinal take care of going alone to visit the Comte de la Fère,” said d’Artagnan; “for the count must be furious.”
Comminges began to laugh. “Oh, oh! why, really, one would say that you four were anthropaphagi! The count is an affable man; besides, he is unarmed; at the first word from his Eminence the two soldiers about him would run to his assistance.”
“Two soldiers,” said d’Artagnan, seeming to remember something, “two soldiers, yes; that, then, is why I hear two men called every evening and see them walking sometimes for half an hour, under my window.”
“That is it; they are waiting for the cardinal, or rather for Bernouin, who comes to call them when the cardinal goes out.”
“Fine-looking men, upon my word!” said d’Artagnan.
“They belong to the regiment that was at Lens, which the prince assigned to the cardinal.”
“Ah, Monsieur,” said d’Artagnan, as if to sum up in a word all that conversation, “if only his Eminence would relent and grant to Monsieur de la Fère our liberty.”
“I wish it with all my heart,” said Comminges.
“Then, if he should forget that visit, you would find no inconvenience in reminding him of it?”
“Not at all.”
“Ah, that gives me more confidence.”
This skillful turn of the conversation would have seemed a sublime manoeuvre to anyone who could have read the Gascon’s soul.
“Now,” said d’Artagnan, “I’ve one last favor to ask of you, Monsieur de Comminges.”
“At your service, sir.”
“You will see the count again?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Will you remember us to him and ask him to solicit for me the same favor that he will have obtained?”
“You want the cardinal to come here?”
“No; I know my place and am not so presumptuous. Let his Eminence do me the honor to give me a hearing; that is all I want.”
“Oh!” muttered Porthos, shaking his head, “never should I have thought this of him! How misfortune humbles a man!”
“I promise you it shall be done,” answered de Comminges.
“Tell the count that I am well; that you found me sad, but resigned.”
“I am pleased, sir, to hear that.”
“And the same,
