The Vicomte de Bragelonne. Alexandre Dumas
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"Do you think so?" said Porthos.
"It is the result of your hard reading," replied D'Artagnan. "So come along, let us be off."
"But," said Porthos, "my promise to M. Fouquet?"
"Which?"
"Not to leave St. Mandé without telling him of it."
"Ah! Porthos," said D'Artagnan, "how very young you are."
"In what way?"
"You are going to Fontainebleau, are you not, where you will find M. Fouquet?"
"Yes."
"Probably in the king's palace."
"Yes," repeated Porthos, with an air full of majesty.
"Well, you will accost him with these words: 'M. Fouquet, I have the honor to inform you that I have just left St. Mandé.'"
"And," said Porthos, with the same majestic mien, "seeing me at Fontainebleau at the king's, M. Fouquet will not be able to tell me I am not speaking the truth."
"My dear Porthos, I was just on the point of opening my lips to make the same remark, but you anticipate me in everything. Oh! Porthos, how fortunately you are gifted; age has not made any impression on you."
"Not overmuch, certainly."
"Then there is nothing more to say?"
"I think not."
"All your scruples are removed?"
"Quite so."
"In that case I shall carry you off with me."
"Exactly; and I shall go and get my horses saddled."
"You have horses here, then?"
"I have five."
"You had them sent from Pierrefonds, I suppose?"
"No, M. Fouquet gave them to me."
"My dear Porthos, we shall not want five horses for two persons; besides, I have already three in Paris, which will make eight, and that will be too many."
"It would not be too many if I had some of my servants here; but, alas! I have not got them."
"Do you regret them, then?"
"I regret Mousqueton; I need Mousqueton."
"What a good-hearted fellow you are, Porthos," said D'Artagnan; "but the best thing you can do is to leave your horses here, as you have left Mousqueton out yonder."
"Why so?"
"Because, by-and-by, it might turn out a very good thing if M. Fouquet had never given you anything at all."
"I don't understand you," said Porthos.
"It is not necessary you should understand."
"But yet—"
"I will explain to you later, Porthos."
"I'll wager it is some piece of policy or other."
"And of the most subtle character," returned D'Artagnan.
Porthos bent his head at this word policy; then, after a moment's reflection, he added: "I confess, D'Artagnan, that I am no politician."
"I know that well."
"Oh! no one knows what you told me yourself, you the bravest of the brave."
"What did I tell you, Porthos?"
"That every man has his day. You told me so, and I have experienced it myself. There are certain days when one feels less pleasure than others in exposing one's self to a bullet or a sword-thrust."
"Exactly my own idea."
"And mine, too, although I can hardly believe in blows or thrusts which kill outright."
"The deuce! and yet you have killed a few in your time."
"Yes; but I have never been killed."
"Your reason is a very good one."
"Therefore I do not believe I shall ever die from a thrust of a sword or a gunshot."
"In that case, then, you are afraid of nothing. Ah! water, perhaps?"
"Oh, I swim like an otter."
"Of a quartan fever, then?"
"I never had one yet, and I don't believe I ever shall; but there is one thing I will admit;" and Porthos dropped his voice.
"What is that?" asked D'Artagnan, adopting the same tone of voice as Porthos.
"I must confess," repeated Porthos, "that I am horribly afraid of political matters."
"Ah! bah!" exclaimed D'Artagnan.
"Upon my word, it's true," said Porthos, in a stentorian voice. "I have seen his eminence Monsieur le Cardinal de Richelieu, and his eminence Monsieur le Cardinal de Mazarin; the one was a red politician, the other a black politician; I have never felt very much more satisfaction with the one than with the other; the first struck off the heads of M. de Marillac, M. de Thou, M. de Cinq-Mars, M. Chalais, M. de Boutteville, and M. de Montmorency; the second got a whole crowd of Frondeurs cut in pieces, and we belonged to them."
"On the contrary, we did not belong to them," said D'Artagnan.
"Oh! indeed, yes; for, if I unsheathed my sword for the cardinal, I struck for the king."
"Dear Porthos!"
"Well, I have done. My dread of politics is such, that if there is any question of politics in the matter, I should far sooner prefer to return to Pierrefonds."
"You would be quite right if that were the case. But with me, dear Porthos, no politics at all, that is quite clear. You have labored hard in fortifying Belle-Isle; the king wished to know the name of the clever engineer under whose directions the works were carried on; you are modest, as all men of true genius are; perhaps Aramis wishes to put you under a bushel. But I happen to seize hold of you; I make it known who you are; I produce you; the king rewards you; and that is the only policy I have to do with."
"And the only one I will have to do with either," said Porthos, holding out his hand to D'Artagnan.
But D'Artagnan knew Porthos' grasp; he knew that once imprisoned within the baron's five fingers, no hand ever left it without being half-crushed. He therefore held out, not his hand, but his fist, and Porthos did not even perceive the difference. The servants talked a little with each other in an undertone, and whispered a few words, which D'Artagnan understood, but which he took very good care not to let Porthos understand. "Our friend," said he to himself, "was really and truly Aramis' prisoner. Let us now see what the result will be of the liberation of the captive."
CHAPTER XI.
THE RAT AND THE CHEESE.
D'Artagnan and Porthos returned on foot, as D'Artagnan had arrived. When D'Artagnan, as he entered the shop of the Pilon d'Or, had announced to Planchet that M. de Valon would be one of the privileged travelers, and when the plume in Porthos' hat had made the wooden candles suspended over the front jingle together, something almost like a melancholy presentiment troubled the delight which Planchet had promised himself for the next day. But the grocer's heart was of sterling metal, a precious relic of the good old time, which always remains what it has always been for those who are getting old the time of their youth, and for those who are young the old age of their ancestors. Planchet, notwithstanding the sort of internal