“Porthos,” said d’Artagnan, “who will attend you in your campaigns?”
“Why,” replied Porthos, “Mouston, of course.”
This was a blow to d’Artagnan. He could already see the intendant’s beaming smile change to a contortion of grief. “But,” he said, “Mouston is not so young as he was, my dear fellow; besides, he has grown fat and perhaps has lost his fitness for active service.”
“That may be true,” replied Porthos; “but I am used to him, and besides, he wouldn’t be willing to let me go without him, he loves me so much.”
Oh, blind self-love! thought d’Artagnan.
“And you,” asked Porthos, “haven’t you still in your service your old lackey, that good, that brave, that intelligent—what, then, is his name?”
“Planchet—yes, I have found him again, but he is lackey no longer.”
“What is he, then?”
“With his sixteen hundred francs—you remember, the sixteen hundred francs he earned at the siege of La Rochelle by carrying a letter to Lord de Winter—he has set up a little shop in the Rue des Lombards and is now a confectioner.”
“Ah, he is a confectioner in the Rue des Lombards! How does it happen, then, that he is in your service?”
“He has been guilty of certain escapades and fears he may be disturbed.” And the musketeer narrated to his friend Planchet’s adventure.
“Well,” said Porthos, “if anyone had told you in the old times that the day would come when Planchet would rescue Rochefort and that you would protect him in it—”
“I should not have believed him; but men are changed by events.”
“There is nothing truer than that,” said Porthos; “but what does not change, or changes for the better, is wine. Taste of this; it is a Spanish wine which our friend Athos thought much of.”
At that moment the steward came in to consult his master upon the proceedings of the next day and also with regard to the shooting party which had been proposed.
“Tell me, Mouston,” said Porthos, “are my arms in good condition?”
“Your arms, my lord—what arms?”
“Zounds! my weapons.”
“What weapons?”
“My military weapons.”
“Yes, my lord; at any rate, I think so.”
“Make sure of it, and if they want it, have them burnished up. Which is my best cavalry horse?”
“Vulcan.”
“And the best hack?”
“Bayard.”
“What horse dost thou choose for thyself?”
“I like Rustaud, my lord; a good animal, whose paces suit me.”
“Strong, thinkest thou?”
“Half Norman, half Mecklenburger; will go night and day.”
“That will do for us. See to these horses. Polish up or make someone else polish my arms. Then take pistols with thee and a hunting-knife.”
“Are we then going to travel, my lord?” asked Mousqueton, rather uneasy.
“Something better still, Mouston.”
“An expedition, sir?” asked the steward, whose roses began to change into lilies.
“We are going to return to the service, Mouston,” replied Porthos, still trying to restore his mustache to the military curl it had long lost.
“Into the service—the king’s service?” Mousqueton trembled; even his fat, smooth cheeks shook as he spoke, and he looked at d’Artagnan with an air of reproach; he staggered, and his voice was almost choked.
“Yes and no. We shall serve in a campaign, seek out all sorts of adventures—return, in short, to our former life.”
These last words fell on Mousqueton like a thunderbolt. It was those very terrible old days that made the present so excessively delightful, and the blow was so great he rushed out, overcome, and forgot to shut the door.
The two friends remained alone to speak of the future and to build castles in the air. The good wine which Mousqueton had placed before them traced out in glowing drops to d’Artagnan a fine perspective, shining with quadruples and pistoles, and showed to Porthos a blue ribbon and a ducal mantle; they were, in fact, asleep on the table when the servants came to light them to their bed.
Mousqueton was, however, somewhat consoled by d’Artagnan, who the next day told him that in all probability war would always be carried on in the heart of Paris and within reach of the Château du Vallon, which was near Corbeil, or Bracieux, which was near Melun, and of Pierrefonds, which was between Compiègne and Villars-Cotterets.
“But—formerly—it appears,” began Mousqueton timidly.
“Oh!” said d’Artagnan, “we don’t now make war as we did formerly. Today it’s a sort of diplomatic arrangement; ask Planchet.”
Mousqueton inquired, therefore, the state of the case of his old friend, who confirmed the statement of d’Artagnan. “But,” he added, “in this war prisoners stand a chance of being hung.”
“The deuce they do!” said Mousqueton; “I think I should like the siege of Rochelle better than this war, then!”
Porthos, meantime, asked d’Artagnan to give him his instructions how to proceed on his journey.
“Four days,” replied his friend, “are necessary to reach Blois; one day to rest there; three or four days to return to Paris. Set out, therefore, in a week, with your suite, and go to the Hôtel de la Chevrette, Rue Tiquetonne, and there await me.”
“That’s agreed,” said Porthos.
“As to myself, I shall go around to see Athos; for though I don’t think his aid worth much, one must with one’s friends observe all due politeness,” said d’Artagnan.
The friends then took leave of each other on the very border of the estate of Pierrefonds, to which Porthos escorted his friend.
At least, d’Artagnan said to himself, as he took the road to Villars-Cotterets, at least I shall not be alone in my undertaking. That devil, Porthos, is a man of
