“Really!” said d’Artagnan. “Well, all I can say is your publisher is quite generous, my dear Aramis.”
“How, Monsieur!” cried Bazin. “A poem sold for as much as that! It’s incredible! Oh, Monsieur—write as much as you want! You may become the equal of Monsieur Voiture and Monsieur Benserade. I’d like that. A poet is as good as an abbot. Please, Monsieur Aramis, become a poet—I beg of you.”
“Bazin, my friend,” said Aramis, “I believe you are intruding on my conversation.”
Bazin saw he was in the wrong; he bowed and departed.
“You sell your script for its weight in gold,” said d’Artagnan with a smile. “You’re very lucky, my friend—but watch out, or you’re going to lose that letter sticking out of your doublet, which no doubt also comes from your publisher.”
Aramis, blushing to the eyes, thrust the letter back into his doublet and buttoned it up to his neck. “My dear d’Artagnan,” he said, “let’s go, if you please, and find our friends. Since I’m well off, we may resume dining together again, until it’s once more your turn to be rich.”
“My faith!” said d’Artagnan, with great pleasure. “It’s been too long since we’ve had dinner together. And as I have a rather hazardous expedition to make tonight, I confess I won’t be sorry to brace myself with some bottles of old burgundy.”
“I wouldn’t say no to some old burgundy,” said Aramis, whose ideas of retreat from the world had been completely effaced by the sight of the gold. Pocketing three or four double pistoles to answer the needs of the moment, he put the others into that ebony coffer inlaid with mother-of-pearl, next to the famous handkerchief that served as his talisman.
The two friends went to visit Athos who, faithful to his oath not to leave his lodgings, sent out to order dinner brought in. As he was a connoisseur on the subject of gastronomy, d’Artagnan and Aramis had no hesitation about leaving these important details to him. They took themselves off to find Porthos—but at the corner of the Rue du Bac they encountered Mousqueton, who with an air of self-pity was driving before him a horse and a mule.
D’Artagnan uttered a cry of surprise, not unmixed with joy. “My yellow horse!” he cried. “Aramis, look at that horse!”
“How appallingly bilious!” said Aramis.
“Really? Well, my friend,” replied d’Artagnan, “it was on that very horse that I came to Paris.”
“What? Monsieur knows this horse?” said Mousqueton.
“Its color is certainly distinctive,” said Aramis. “I’ve never seen a hide quite like it.”
“I can believe that,” said d’Artagnan. “That’s how I got three crowns for him. It must have been for his hide, for his carcass certainly isn’t worth any eighteen livres. But how did this horse find its way into your hands, Mousqueton?”
“Let’s not talk about that, Monsieur,” said the valet. “It’s a dirty trick played on us by the husband of our duchess.”
“How’s that, Mousqueton?”
“As you know, we’re looked on with favor by a lady of quality, the Duchesse de . . . but no! Begging your pardon, my master has ordered me to be discreet. She pressed upon us, as a little keepsake, a magnificent Spanish jennet, plus an Andalusian mule that looked simply gorgeous. The husband heard about it, confiscated the fine animals she was sending to us, and substituted these horrid beasts.”
“Which you’re returning to him?” said d’Artagnan.
“Exactly!” replied Mousqueton. “You don’t imagine we could accept mounts like these in exchange for those promised to us.”
“Not at all—though I would have liked to see Porthos on my Buttercup, by God! That would give me some idea of how I looked myself when I arrived in Paris. But don’t let us keep you, Mousqueton—go and complete your master’s mission. Is he at home?”
“Yes, Monsieur, but he’s in a rotten humor,” Mousqueton said. “Get along, you!” And he continued on his way toward the Quai des Grands-Augustins while the two friends went to ring the bell at the door of the unlucky Porthos. He, having spotted them crossing the forecourt, was careful not to answer, and they rang the bell in vain.
Meanwhile, Mousqueton continued on his way. Crossing the Pont Neuf, driving the two nags ahead of him, he reached the Rue aux Ours. Arriving there, according to his master’s orders, he hitched the horse and the mule to the prosecutor’s doorknocker. Then, without bothering himself as to their fate, he returned to Porthos and announced his mission accomplished.
After a while the two unfortunate beasts, who hadn’t eaten anything since the morning, kicked up such a fuss with the doorknocker that the prosecutor ordered his demi-clerk to go ask around the neighborhood to find out who the nags belonged to.
Meanwhile, Madame Coquenard had recognized her gifts, but couldn’t understand their sudden restitution. However, a visit from Porthos soon cleared this up. The wrath that smoldered in the musketeer’s eyes, in spite of his efforts to suppress it, terrified his sensitive inamorata. Mousqueton had mentioned running into d’Artagnan and Aramis, and that d’Artagnan had recognized the yellow horse as the Béarnaise pony on which he’d come to Paris.
Porthos departed after setting a rendezvous with madame in the Cloister of Saint-Magloire. Seeing that he was on his way out, the prosecutor invited him to dinner, an invitation the musketeer refused with a majestic air.
Madame Coquenard went trembling to the Cloister of Saint-Magloire, for she guessed what reproaches awaited her there—but she couldn’t resist Porthos and his haughty and noble airs.
All the imprecations and reproaches that a man wounded in his pride could inflict on a woman Porthos hurled upon the bowed head of the prosecutor’s wife. “Alas!” she said. “I was just trying to do what was best for everyone. One of our clients is a horse-trader and owed us money in arrears. I took the mule and the horse in place of what he owed—he promised me two noble steeds.”
“Well, Madame,” said Porthos, “if he owed you more than five crowns, your horse-trader is a thief.”
“There’s nothing wrong with trying to get a bargain, Monsieur Porthos,” Madame said, looking for an excuse.
“No, Madame—but those whose first interest is a bargain should permit others to find more generous friends.” And Porthos, turning on his heel, made as if to go.
“Monsieur Porthos! Monsieur Porthos!” cried the prosecutor’s wife. “I’ve been wrong, I know that—I shouldn’t have tried to bargain when it comes to equipping a cavalier like you!”
Porthos, without a word, continued to walk away.
To the lady, it seemed as if he was leaving for a golden realm where duchesses and marquises threw bags of money at his feet.
“Monsieur Porthos, stop, in the name of heaven!” she cried. “Stop, and let’s talk.”
“Talking with you just brings me bad luck,” said Porthos.
“But tell me, what do you ask of me?”
“I ask for nothing, because it brings the same result as asking for something.”
She hung on his arm and cried out, in her grief, “Monsieur Porthos, I know nothing of such things! What do I know of horses or harnesses?”
“You should have left it to me, Madame, who does know. But you prefer bargaining and usury.”
“I was wrong, Monsieur Porthos, but I’ll make good, on my word of honor.”
“And how will you do that?” asked the musketeer.
“Listen. Tonight Monsieur Coquenard is going to visit Monsieur le Duc de Chaulnes,89 who has sent for him. Their meeting will last at least three hours. Come to me: we’ll be alone, and can settle our accounts.”
“Now, my dear, that sounds more like it!”
“You’ll forgive me?”
“We shall see,” Porthos said majestically.
And they parted, saying, “Till this evening.”
The devil! thought Porthos as he walked away. I may see the inside of Master Coquenard’s armoire after all.
XXXV
At Night All Cats Are Gray
The evenin
g, awaited so impatiently by both Porthos and d’Artagnan, finally arrived.
As was his custo