“Oh!” said a second voice, which d’Artagnan recognized as that of Aramis. “I swear to you, Princess, that if our reputations didn’t depend on these subterfuges, I’d rather risk my life . . .”
“Yes, yes, I know you’re as brave and adventurous as any man in the world—but you don’t belong just to me, you belong to our whole faction. So be careful.”
“I shall always obey, Madame,” said Aramis, “when commanded by a voice as sweet as yours.” He kissed her hand tenderly.
“Ahh!” cried the sweet-voiced cavalier.
“What?” asked Aramis.
“Can’t you see? The wind has blown off my hat!”
Aramis leapt after the fugitive felt. D’Artagnan took advantage of the confusion to find himself a less dense spot in the hedge from whence he could get a better look at the impostor cavalier. Just at that moment the moon, as inquisitive, perhaps, as our officer, came out from behind a cloud, and in the sudden clarity d’Artagnan recognized the blue eyes, golden hair, and noble features of the Duchesse de Longueville.
As the two went on their way toward the Jesuit monastery, d’Artagnan returned, laughing, to where he’d left Planchet. “Good!” said d’Artagnan, brushing off his knees. “Now, Aramis, I see you clearly: you’re a Frondeur, and you’re the lover of Madame de Longueville.”
XII
Monsieur Porthos du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds
Thanks to what he’d learned from Aramis, d’Artagnan, who already knew that Porthos’s family name was du Vallon, of an uncertain domain, had learned that he was also called de Bracieux, and that from Bracieux he was suing the neighboring Bishop of Noyon. So, it was near Noyon that he needed to seek this estate, in other words, somewhere between the Île-de-France and Picardy.
His route was quickly decided upon: he would go to Dammartin, where the road forks, one branch toward Soissons, and the other to Compiègne. At the fork he would ask about Bracieux, and the answer would determine whether he went left or right.
Planchet, still worried about repercussions from his escapade in Paris, declared he would follow d’Artagnan to the end of the world, whether he went right or left. D’Artagnan thought maybe Planchet should notify his wife of his intentions, or at least tell her he still lived, but Planchet wisely replied that his wife wouldn’t die of anxiety from not knowing his whereabouts, while he, wary of her sharp tongue, might die of anxiety if she did know them.
This made enough sense to d’Artagnan that he insisted no further, so at about eight the next evening, as the fog began to thicken in the streets, he left the Hôtel de La Chevrette and, followed by Planchet, went out of the capital by Porte Saint-Denis.
By midnight the two travelers were in Dammartin. It was too late to make inquiries: the host of the Cygne de la Croix inn had already gone to bed. D’Artagnan put off his questions till the following day.
The next morning, he sent for the host, but he was one of those sly Normans who never answer yes or no, unwilling to commit themselves by giving a straight answer. Eventually d’Artagnan divined from the host’s equivocations that the road to the right was the one to follow, and he resumed his journey based on this doubtful information. By nine in the morning he’d reached Nanteuil, where he stopped for lunch.
This time the host was a frank and honest Picard who, recognizing Planchet as a compatriot, made no fuss about providing the information desired. The domain of Bracieux was just a few leagues from Villers-Cotterêts. D’Artagnan knew that town from three or four visits with the Court, because at that time Villers-Cotterêts was a royal château. So, he made his way there and went to the Golden Dolphin, the inn where he usually stayed.
There he learned what he wanted to know. The Bracieux estate was indeed about four leagues from the town, but he wouldn’t find Porthos there. Porthos had been in a legal brawl with the Bishop of Noyon about the domain of Pierrefonds, which bordered his, and Porthos, tiring of a lawsuit that he didn’t understand anyway, had settled it by simply buying the estate, thereby adding Pierrefonds to his list of noble titles. He now answered to the resounding name of du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds and had taken up residence in his newest home. Porthos was apparently collecting titles and wouldn’t stop until he was Marquis de Carabas.49
D’Artagnan had to wait to continue until the following day, as the horses had just ridden ten leagues and were tired. He could have rented others, perhaps, but there was a great forest to pass through, and Planchet, it will be remembered, didn’t like riding through woods at night.
Another thing Planchet didn’t like was starting out in the morning with an empty stomach, so upon waking, d’Artagnan found his breakfast already prepared. He couldn’t exactly complain about this delay, so he sat down to table, and Planchet, resuming his former humble position, felt no more shame eating d’Artagnan’s scraps than Madame de Motteville50 and Madame de Fargis51 did eating the leftovers of Anne of Austria.
So d’Artagnan didn’t take the road until after eight o’clock. There was no mistaking it: he had only to follow the road from Villers-Cotterêt toward Compiègne, and once through the woods, take the first right.
It was a beautiful spring morning, the birds singing in the tall trees, and broad sunbeams angling through the clearings like curtains of golden gauze. Elsewhere, the light scarcely penetrated the thick canopy of leaves, and the trunks of the old oaks grew so close together that the leaping squirrels dwelled in eternal shade. Dawn had released from the foliage the natural perfume of herbs, flowers, and leaves, which delighted the heart. D’Artagnan, sick of the stench of Paris, thought to himself that when one bore three names all stitched together, and owned such woods, it must be like living in Paradise. He shook his head and said, “If I were Porthos, and d’Artagnan came to me with a proposal such as the one I bear, I know what I’d tell d’Artagnan.”
As for Planchet, he wasn’t thinking; he was digesting.
As they emerged from the woods d’Artagnan saw the side road he’d been told of, and down the road the towers of an immense feudal castle. “Hmm,” he murmured. “I think I recall that this castle belonged to an ancient branch of the Orléans family. Can Porthos have purchased it from the Duc de Longueville?”
“Ma foi, Monsieur,” said Planchet, “here’s a domain indeed. If all this belongs to Monsieur Porthos, my compliments to him.”
“Plague take it,” said d’Artagnan, “don’t call him Porthos, or even du Vallon; address him as de Bracieux or de Pierrefonds, or you’ll spoil my mission.”
As they approached the castle that had first caught his eye, d’Artagnan realized that it couldn’t be his friend’s estate: the towers, though as solid as if built yesterday, were abandoned and emptied, as open to the sky as if some giant had split them with an ax.
Farther along, at the end of the road, d’Artagnan found himself gazing down into a beautiful valley, at the bottom of which slept a lovely lake. Houses were scattered along its shores, humble dwellings roofed with tile or thatch, all deferring as to a sovereign lord to an ornate château, built early in the reign of Henri IV and surmounted by stately weathervanes.
This time, d’Artagnan had no doubt but that he was gazing upon the home of Porthos.
The road led straight to this handsome château, which was to the feudal castle what a fop of the Duc d’Enghien’s circle was to an armored knight of the reign of Charles VII. D’Artagnan put his horse into a trot and hastened down the road, followed by Planchet grimly matching his master’s gait.
After a few minutes’ ride, d’Artagnan found himself at the end of a carriageway lined with poplars that led to an iron gate with gilded points and crossbars. Halfway down this avenue was a sort of lord dressed in green, his clothes as gilded as the gate, and mounted on a sturdy hack. He was attended by a pair of liveried footmen and was receiving the respectful homage of a dozen or so peasants.
“Ah ha!” said d’Artagnan to himself. “Can that be the Seigneur du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds? If so, mon Dieu, h
e’s shrunken since he gave up the name of Porthos!”
“That can’t be him,” said Planchet, who’d asked himself the same question. “Monsieur Porthos was well over six feet tall, and that man’s no more than five and a half.”
“Maybe,” said d’Artagnan, “but look at the way they to bow to him.” And with these words, d’Artagnan spurred his horse toward the hack and its respected rider.
As d’Artagnan approached, he began to realize who it was. “Jesus God, Monsieur!” said Planchet, who was coming to the same conclusion. “Is that who I think it is?”
At this exclamation, the mounted man turned with slow dignity and a lofty air, and the two travelers could see, displayed in all their splendor, the round eyes, ruddy complexion, and smug smile of Mousqueton.52
Indeed, it was Mousqueton—Mousqueton, grown gloriously portly—Mousqueton who, recognizing d’Artagnan, unlike that hypocrite Bazin, slipped off his steed and humbly approached the officer, hat in hand, so that the homage of the assembled crowd was transferred to this new sun that eclipsed the old.
“Monsieur d’Artagnan, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” repeated Mousqueton, his enormous cheeks quivering with joy, “Monsieur d’Artagnan! Oh, what joy this will be to my lord and master du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds!”
“My good Mousqueton! Is your master here, then?”
“You are within his domains.”
“In which you are so splendid, so blooming, so enlarged!” continued d’Artagnan, listing the changes good fortune had wrought upon he who once had been always so hungry.
“Yes, Monsieur,” said Mousqueton, “I’m doing pretty well, thank God!”
“But have you nothing to say to your friend Planchet?”
“My friend Planchet! Oh, Planchet, are you here, too?” cried Mousqueton, with open arms and tears in his eyes.
“In person,” replied Planchet. “But I was wondering if you’d become too proud to notice me.”
“Too proud to notice an old friend! Never, Planchet. If you wondered that, you don’t know your Mousqueton.”
“Then well met!” said Planchet, jumping down from his horse and throwing his arms around Mousqueton. “You’re not like that wretch Bazin, who scarcely seemed to know me, and left me cooling my heels for two hours in a shed.” And Planchet and Mousqueton embraced with such emotion, the onlookers assumed Planchet must be some lord in disguise, so well was he received by their hero Mousqueton.
“And now, Monsieur,” said Mousqueton, when he’d pried himself away from Planchet, who’d tried to embrace him tightly enough to touch hands behind his back, but failed, “now let me take my leave of you, for I don’t want my master to hear of your arrival from anyone but me. He would never forgive me for not warning him you were coming.”
“So, your master, my old friend, hasn’t forgotten me?” said d’Artagnan, careful not to call him by either his former name of Porthos or his cascade of new names.
“Forget! Him?” cried Mousqueton. “Hardly a day passes that we don’t expect to hear that you’ve been made a marshal or promoted to replace Monsieur de Gassion or Monsieur de Bassompierre.”
D’Artagnan allowed his lips to curve into one of those rare melancholy smiles that still rose from the depths of his heart despite the disappointment of years.
“And you, hayseeds,” said Mousqueton to the locals, “stay near Monsieur le Comte d’Artagnan and escort him in honor, while I prepare monseigneur for his arrival.”
Planchet, still nimble, leapt back on his horse, while Mousqueton, with the aid of two fawning peasants, remounted his own, then cantered off up the tree-lined avenue at a rate that said more about the strength of his mount’s back than of its legs.
“Now that’s more like it,” said d’Artagnan. “No mystery, no cloaked figures, no politics here: just honest laughter and cries of joy. Everyone seems well-fed and happy, and even nature itself seems to celebrate, as if the trees, instead of growing leaves and flowers, had sprouted red and green ribbons.”
“As for me,” said Planchet, “I fancy I smell a delicious roast, and imagine the cooking staff lining up to bow as we pass. Ah, Monsieur—what a chef Monsieur de Pierrefonds must have, considering how he loved to eat when he was just Monsieur Porthos!”
“Stop that,” said d’Artagnan, “you’re frightening me. If the reality is as rich as the appearance, I’m done for. A man in Paradise will scarcely leave it, and I’ll fail with him as I failed with Aramis.”
XIII
In Which d’Artagnan Finds Porthos, and Learns That Money Can’t Buy Happiness
D’Artagnan rode through the gate and found himself in front of the château. When he saw, on the porch, the silhouette of a giant, he immediately dismounted and hurried forward. Say what you will about d’Artagnan, his heart beat with joy at the sight of this tall and martial figure, the profile of a brave and good friend.
He ran to Porthos and rushed into his arms. All the servants, ranged in a circle at a respectful distance, looked on with humble curiosity. Mousqueton, in the front rank, dabbed at his eyes—the poor man hadn’t stopped weeping for joy since he’d first recognized d’Artagnan and Planchet.
Porthos took his friend by the arm. “Ah, what joy to see you again, dear d’Artagnan!” he cried in a voice that had turned from baritone to bass. “So, you haven’t forgotten me, then?”
“Forget you! Ah, my dear du Vallon, does one forget the finest days of his youth, his devoted friends and the perils they faced together? Seeing you brings every moment of our old friendship rushing back to me.”
“Yes, yes,” said Porthos, trying to give his mustache the rakish twist it had lost in his seclusion, “yes, we did a thing or two back in those days, when we gave the poor old cardinal such a hard time.”
And he gave a great sigh—which d’Artagnan noted.
“In any case,” continued Porthos, in a troubled tone, “welcome, dear friend. You’ll help me regain my old high spirits. Tomorrow we’ll hunt the hare across my fields, which are excellent, or chase the deer in my woods, which are also excellent. I have four hounds I believe are the quickest in the province, and a full pack nearly as good, the equal of any for twenty miles around.”
And Porthos sighed a second time.
“Oh ho!” d’Artagnan muttered. “Is my brave gentleman less happy than he seems?” Then, aloud: “But first, present me to Madame du Vallon, because I remember that handsome letter of invitation you sent me, at the bottom of which she kindly added a few lines.”
At this, a third sigh from Porthos. “I lost Madame du Vallon two years ago,” he said, “and I’m still wounded by it. That’s why I left my Château du Vallon near Corbeil to come and live on my estate of Bracieux, a change that led me to buy this domain of Pierrefonds. Poor Madame du Vallon,” continued Porthos, with a grimace of regret, “she was a woman of many moods, but she eventually got used to me and my little ways.”
“So, you’re wealthy and unencumbered,” said d’Artagnan.
“True, alas!” sighed Porthos. “I’m a widower with an income of forty thousand livres. Let’s have breakfast, shall we?”
“The sooner the better,” said d’Artagnan. “The morning air gave me an appetite.”
“Yes,” said Porthos, “I have excellent air.”
They went into the château, which was gilded from top to bottom: the cornices were gilt, the moldings were gilt, even the wooden chairs shone with gold paint.
A table stood waiting, attended by servants. “You see?” said Porthos. “This is how I do things.”
“Peste,” said d’Artagnan, “my compliments to you. The king does no better.”
“Yes,” said Porthos, “I heard Monsieur de Mazarin doesn’t feed him properly. Try this cutlet, d’Artagnan—it’s mutton from my own sheep.”
“I congratulate you,” said d’Artagnan. “You have very tender sheep.”
“Yes, they’re fed in my meadows, which are excellent.”
“I’ll have a bit more.”
“No, instead try some of this rabbit from a hare killed yesterday in my warrens.”
“Dame! What is that rare flavor?” said d’Artagnan. “Do you feed them on wild thyme?”
“And tell me what you think of this wine,” said Porthos. “Isn’t it excellent?”
“It’s quite charming.”
“It’s from my own vineyards.”
“Really!”
“Yes, from that south-facing slope on that excellent hill. It gives me twenty hogsheads.”
“That’s a truly fine vintage, that is!”
And Porthos sighed for the fifth time—d’Artagnan had been counting them. “Ah çà!” he said. “Something’s eating you, old friend. Are you suffering? Is it your health?”
“My health is quite excellent, better than ever. I could kill an ox with a single punch.”
“Family troubles, perhaps . . .”
“Family! No, fortunately, I’m the only one of my clan left in this world.”
“Then why these great sighs?”
“My friend,” said Porthos, “no one is aware of this, but I’ll tell it to you: I’m not happy.”
“You, not happy, Porthos! You, who have a château, with meadows, hills, and woods, and an income of forty thousand livres—you aren’t happy?”
“My friend, I have all this, it’s true—but in the middle of it, I’m all alone.”
“Oh, I see—you’re surrounded by bumpkins and rabble who are beneath you.”
Porthos paled slightly and emptied a great glass of the vintage from his vineyard. “No,” he said, “on the contrary, I’m surrounded by gentry who trace their lines back to Pharamond, or Charlemagne, or at worst Hugues Capet.53 At first, since I was the newcomer, I made advances to them, but as you know, my dear Madame du Vallon . . .” Porthos stopped, at a loss.
“Madame du Vallon,” he continued, “had a dubious background—her first husband, as I’m sure you remember, d’Artagnan, was a mere attorney. They said she was . . . nauseating. Nauseating! At such a word, I might slay thirty thousand. As it happens, I killed only two, and though that silenced the rest, it didn’t make me their friend. So, I’m an outcast; I live alone, I’m bored, and it eats at me.”
Twenty Years After Page 12