Chapter LV. Porthos's Will.
At Pierrefonds everything was in mourning. The courts were deserted--thestables closed--the parterres neglected. In the basins, the fountains,formerly so jubilantly fresh and noisy, had stopped of themselves. Alongthe roads around the chateau came a few grave personages mounted onmules or country nags. These were rural neighbors, cures and bailiffs ofadjacent estates. All these people entered the chateau silently, handedtheir horses to a melancholy-looking groom, and directed their steps,conducted by a huntsman in black, to the great dining-room, whereMousqueton received them at the door. Mousqueton had become so thin intwo days that his clothes moved upon him like an ill-fitting scabbard inwhich the sword-blade dances at each motion. His face, composed of redand white, like that of the Madonna of Vandyke, was furrowed by twosilver rivulets which had dug their beds in his cheeks, as full formerlyas they had become flabby since his grief began. At each fresh arrival,Mousqueton found fresh tears, and it was pitiful to see him presshis throat with his fat hand to keep from bursting into sobs andlamentations. All these visits were for the purpose of hearing thereading of Porthos's will, announced for that day, and at which all thecovetous friends of the dead man were anxious to be present, as he hadleft no relations behind him.
The visitors took their places as they arrived, and the great room hadjust been closed when the clock struck twelve, the hour fixed for thereading of the important document. Porthos's procureur--and thatwas naturally the successor of Master Coquenard--commenced by slowlyunfolding the vast parchment upon which the powerful hand of Porthos hadtraced his sovereign will. The seal broken--the spectacles put on--thepreliminary cough having sounded--every one pricked up his ears.Mousqueton had squatted himself in a corner, the better to weep and thebetter to hear. All at once the folding-doors of the great room, whichhad been shut, were thrown open as if by magic, and a warlike figureappeared upon the threshold, resplendent in the full light of the sun.This was D'Artagnan, who had come alone to the gate, and finding nobodyto hold his stirrup, had tied his horse to the knocker and announcedhimself. The splendor of daylight invading the room, the murmur of allpresent, and, more than all, the instinct of the faithful dog, drewMousqueton from his reverie; he raised his head, recognized the oldfriend of his master, and, screaming with grief, he embraced his knees,watering the floor with his tears. D'Artagnan raised the poor intendant,embraced him as if he had been a brother, and, having nobly saluted theassembly, who all bowed as they whispered to each other his name, hewent and took his seat at the extremity of the great carved oak hall,still holding by the hand poor Mousqueton, who was suffocating withexcess of woe, and sank upon the steps. Then the procureur, who, likethe rest, was considerably agitated, commenced.
Porthos, after a profession of faith of the most Christian character,asked pardon of his enemies for all the injuries he might have donethem. At this paragraph, a ray of inexpressible pride beamed from theeyes of D'Artagnan.
He recalled to his mind the old soldier; all those enemies of Porthosbrought to earth by his valiant hand; he reckoned up the numbersof them, and said to himself that Porthos had acted wisely, not toenumerate his enemies or the injuries done to them, or the task wouldhave been too much for the reader. Then came the following schedule ofhis extensive lands:
"I possess at this present time, by the grace of God--
"1. The domain of Pierrefonds, lands, woods, meadows, waters, andforests, surrounded by good walls.
"2. The domain of Bracieux, chateaux, forests, plowed lands, formingthree farms.
"3. The little estate Du Vallon, so named because it is in the valley."(Brave Porthos!)
"4. Fifty farms in Touraine, amounting to five hundred acres.
"5. Three mills upon the Cher, bringing in six hundred livres each.
"6. Three fish-pools in Berry, producing two hundred livres a year.
"As to my personal or movable property, so called because it can bemoved, as is so well explained by my learned friend the bishop ofVannes--" (D'Artagnan shuddered at the dismal remembrance attached tothat name)--the procureur continued imperturbably--"they consist--"
"1. In goods which I cannot detail here for want of room, and whichfurnish all my chateaux or houses, but of which the list is drawn up bymy intendant."
Every one turned his eyes towards Mousqueton, who was still lost ingrief.
"2. In twenty horses for saddle and draught, which I have particularlyat my chateau of Pierrefonds, and which are called--Bayard, Roland,Charlemagne, Pepin, Dunois, La Hire, Ogier, Samson, Milo, Nimrod,Urganda, Armida, Flastrade, Dalilah, Rebecca, Yolande, Finette,Grisette, Lisette, and Musette.
"3. In sixty dogs, forming six packs, divided as follows: the first, forthe stag; the second, for the wolf; the third, for the wild boar; thefourth, for the hare; and the two others, for setters and protection.
"4. In arms for war and the chase contained in my gallery of arms.
"5. My wines of Anjou, selected for Athos, who liked them formerly;my wines of Burgundy, Champagne, Bordeaux, and Spain, stocking eightcellars and twelve vaults, in my various houses.
"6. My pictures and statues, which are said to be of great value, andwhich are sufficiently numerous to fatigue the sight.
"7. My library, consisting of six thousand volumes, quite new, and havenever been opened.
"8. My silver plate, which is perhaps a little worn, but which ought toweigh from a thousand to twelve hundred pounds, for I had great troublein lifting the coffer that contained it and could not carry it more thansix times round my chamber.
"9. All these objects, in addition to the table and house linen, aredivided in the residences I liked the best."
Here the reader stopped to take breath. Every one sighed, coughed, andredoubled his attention. The procureur resumed:
"I have lived without having any children, and it is probable I nevershall have any, which to me is a cutting grief. And yet I am mistaken,for I have a son, in common with my other friends; that is, M. RaoulAuguste Jules de Bragelonne, the true son of M. le Comte de la Fere.
"This young nobleman appears to me extremely worthy to succeed thevaliant gentleman of whom I am the friend and very humble servant."
Here a sharp sound interrupted the reader. It was D'Artagnan's sword,which, slipping from his baldric, had fallen on the sonorous flooring.Every one turned his eyes that way, and saw that a large tear had rolledfrom the thick lid of D'Artagnan, half-way down to his aquiline nose,the luminous edge of which shone like a little crescent moon.
"This is why," continued the procureur, "I have left all my property,movable, or immovable, comprised in the above enumerations, to M. leVicomte Raoul Auguste Jules de Bragelonne, son of M. le Comte de laFere, to console him for the grief he seems to suffer, and enable him toadd more luster to his already glorious name."
A vague murmur ran through the auditory. The procureur continued,seconded by the flashing eye of D'Artagnan, which, glancing over theassembly, quickly restored the interrupted silence:
"On condition that M. le Vicomte de Bragelonne do give to M. leChevalier d'Artagnan, captain of the king's musketeers, whatever thesaid Chevalier d'Artagnan may demand of my property. On condition thatM. le Vicomte de Bragelonne do pay a good pension to M. le Chevalierd'Herblay, my friend, if he should need it in exile. I leave to myintendant Mousqueton all of my clothes, of city, war, or chase, to thenumber of forty-seven suits, in the assurance that he will wear themtill they are worn out, for the love of and in remembrance of hismaster. Moreover, I bequeath to M. le Vicomte de Bragelonne my oldservant and faithful friend Mousqueton, already named, providing thatthe said vicomte shall so act that Mousqueton shall declare, when dying,he has never ceased to be happy."
On hearing these words, Mousqueton bowed, pale and trembling; hisshoulders shook convulsively; his countenance, compressed by a frightfulgrief, appeared from between his icy hands, and the spectators saw himstagger and hesitate, as if, though wishing to leave the hall, he didnot know the way.
"Mo
usqueton, my good friend," said D'Artagnan, "go and make yourpreparations. I will take you with me to Athos's house, whither I shallgo on leaving Pierrefonds."
Mousqueton made no reply. He scarcely breathed, as if everything in thathall would from that time be foreign. He opened the door, and slowlydisappeared.
The procureur finished his reading, after which the greater partof those who had come to hear the last will of Porthos dispersed bydegrees, many disappointed, but all penetrated with respect. Asfor D'Artagnan, thus left alone, after having received the formalcompliments of the procureur, he was lost in admiration of the wisdom ofthe testator, who had so judiciously bestowed his wealth upon the mostnecessitous and the most worthy, with a delicacy that neither noblemannor courtier could have displayed more kindly. When Porthos enjoinedRaoul de Bragelonne to give D'Artagnan all that he would ask, he knewwell, our worthy Porthos, that D'Artagnan would ask or take nothing; andin case he did demand anything, none but himself could say what. Porthosleft a pension to Aramis, who, if he should be inclined to ask too much,was checked by the example of D'Artagnan; and that word _exile_, thrownout by the testator, without apparent intention, was it not the mildest,most exquisite criticism upon that conduct of Aramis which had broughtabout the death of Porthos? But there was no mention of Athos in thetestament of the dead. Could the latter for a moment suppose that theson would not offer the best part to the father? The rough mind ofPorthos had fathomed all these causes, seized all these shades moreclearly than law, better than custom, with more propriety than taste.
"Porthos had indeed a heart," said D'Artagnan to himself with a sigh.As he made this reflection, he fancied he hard a groan in the room abovehim; and he thought immediately of poor Mousqueton, whom he felt it wasa pleasing duty to divert from his grief. For this purpose he left thehall hastily to seek the worthy intendant, as he had not returned. Heascended the staircase leading to the first story, and perceived, inPorthos's own chamber, a heap of clothes of all colors and materials,upon which Mousqueton had laid himself down after heaping them all onthe floor together. It was the legacy of the faithful friend. Thoseclothes were truly his own; they had been given to him; the hand ofMousqueton was stretched over these relics, which he was kissing withhis lips, with all his face, and covered with his body. D'Artagnanapproached to console the poor fellow.
"My God!" said he, "he does not stir--he has fainted!"
But D'Artagnan was mistaken. Mousqueton was dead! Dead, like the dogwho, having lost his master, crawls back to die upon his cloak.