“Monsieur Mouston,” said d’Artagnan, “I should indeed condole with you had I not at this moment something very pressing to attend to.”
Then taking Porthos aside:
“My dear Du Vallon,” he said, “here you are in full dress most fortunately, for I am going to take you to the cardinal’s.”
“Gracious me! really!” exclaimed Porthos, opening his great wondering eyes.
“Yes, my friend.”
“A presentation? indeed!”
“Does that alarm you?”
“No, but it agitates me.”
“Oh! don’t be distressed; you have to deal with a cardinal of another kind. This one will not oppress you by his dignity.”
“ ’Tis the same thing—you understand me, d’Artagnan—a court.”
“There’s no court now. Alas!”
“The queen!”
“I was going to say, there’s no longer a queen. The queen! Rest assured, we shall not see her.”
“And you say that we are going from here to the Palais Royal?”
“Immediately. Only, that there may be no delay, I shall borrow one of your horses.”
“Certainly; all the four are at your service.”
“Oh, I need only one of them for the time being.”
“Shall we take our valets?”
“Yes, you may as well take Mousqueton. As to Planchet, he has certain reasons for not going to court.”
“And what are they?”
“Oh, he doesn’t stand well with his Eminence.”
“Mouston,” said Porthos, “saddle Vulcan and Bayard.”
“And for myself, Monsieur, shall I saddle Rustaud?”
“No, take a more stylish horse, Phoebus or Superbe; we are going with some ceremony.”
“Ah,” said Mousqueton, breathing more freely, “you are only going, then, to make a visit?”
“Oh! yes, of course, Mouston; nothing else. But to avoid risk, put the pistols in the holsters. You will find mine on my saddle, already loaded.”
Mouston breathed a sigh; he couldn’t understand visits of ceremony made under arms.
“Indeed,” said Porthos, looking complacently at his old lackey as he went away, “you are right, d’Artagnan; Mouston will do; Mouston has a very fine appearance.”
D’Artagnan smiled.
“But you, my friend—are you not going to change your dress?”
“No, I shall go as I am. This traveling dress will serve to show the cardinal my haste to obey his commands.”
They set out on Vulcan and Bayard, followed by Mousqueton on Phoebus, and arrived at the Palais Royal at about a quarter to seven. The streets were crowded, for it was the day of Pentecost, and the crowd looked in wonder at these two cavaliers; one as fresh as if he had come out of a bandbox, the other so covered with dust that he looked as if he had but just come off a field of battle.
Mousqueton also attracted attention; and as the romance of Don Quixote was then the fashion, they said that he was Sancho, who, after having lost one master, had found two.
On reaching the palace, d’Artagnan sent to his Eminence the letter in which he had been ordered to return without delay. He was soon ordered to the presence of the cardinal.
“Courage!” he whispered to Porthos, as they proceeded. “Do not be intimidated. Believe me, the eye of the eagle is closed forever. We have only the vulture to deal with. Hold yourself as bolt upright as on the day of the bastion of St. Gervais, and do not bow too low to this Italian; that might give him a poor idea of you.”
“Good!” answered Porthos. “Good!”
Mazarin was in his study, working at a list of pensions and benefices, of which he was trying to reduce the number. He saw d’Artagnan and Porthos enter with internal pleasure, yet showed no joy in his countenance.
“Ah! you, is it? Monsieur le Lieutenant, you have been very prompt. ’Tis well. Welcome to ye.”
“Thanks, my lord. Here I am at your Eminence’s service, as well as Monsieur du Vallon, one of my old friends, who used to conceal his nobility under the name of Porthos.”
Porthos bowed to the cardinal.
“A magnificent cavalier,” remarked Mazarin.
Porthos turned his head to the right and to the left, and drew himself up with a movement full of dignity.
“The best swordsman in the kingdom, my lord,” said d’Artagnan.
Porthos bowed to his friend.
Mazarin was as fond of fine soldiers as, in later times, Frederick of Prussia used to be. He admired the strong hands, the broad shoulders and the steady eye of Porthos. He seemed to see before him the salvation of his administration and of the kingdom, sculptured in flesh and bone. He remembered that the old association of musketeers was composed of four persons.
“And your two other friends?” he asked.
Porthos opened his mouth, thinking it a good opportunity to put in a word in his turn; d’Artagnan checked him by a glance from the corner of his eye.
“They are prevented at this moment, but will join us later.”
Mazarin coughed a little.
“And this gentleman, being disengaged, takes to the service willingly?” he asked.
“Yes, my lord, and from pure devotion to the cause, for Monsieur de Bracieux is rich.”
“Rich!” said Mazarin, whom that single word always inspired with a great respect.
“Fifty thousand francs a year,” said Porthos.
These were the first words he had spoken.
“From pure zeal?” resumed Mazarin, with his artful smile; “from pure zeal and devotion then?”
“My lord has, perhaps, no faith in those words?” said d’Artagnan.
“Have you, Monsieur le Gascon?” asked Mazarin, supporting his elbows on his desk and his chin on his hands.
“I,” replied the Gascon, “I believe in devotion as a word at one’s baptism, for instance, which naturally comes before one’s proper name; everyone is naturally more or less devout, certainly; but there should be at the end of one’s devotion something to gain.”
“And your friend, for instance; what does he expect to have at the end of his devotion?”
“Well, my lord, my friend has three magnificent estates: that of Vallon, at Corbeil; that of Bracieux, in the Soissonais; and that of Pierrefonds, in the Valois. Now, my lord, he would like to have one of his three estates erected into a barony.”
“Only that?” said Mazarin, his eyes twinkling with joy on seeing that he could pay for Porthos’s devotion without opening his purse; “only that?
