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- Author: Alexandre Dumas
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“You naturally expect, however, that a result of some kind must follow,” replied Bragelonne, with firmness; “for you do not suppose I shall silently accept the shame thus thrust upon me, or the treachery which has been practiced against me?”
“You will take whatever steps in the matter you please, Monsieur Raoul, only do not betray the source whence you derived the truth. That is all I have to ask,—the only price I require for the service I have rendered you.”
“Fear nothing, Madame,” said Bragelonne, with a bitter smile.
“I bribed the locksmith, in whom the lovers confided. You can just as well have done so as myself, can you not?”
“Yes, Madame. Your royal highness, however, has no other advice or caution to give me, except that of not betraying you?”
“None.”
“I am about, therefore, to beg your royal highness to allow me to remain here for one moment.”
“Without me?”
“Oh! no, Madame. It matters very little; for what I have to do can be done in your presence. I only ask one moment to write a line to some one.”
“It is dangerous, Monsieur de Bragelonne. Take care.”
“No one can possibly know that your royal highness has done me the honor to conduct me here. Besides, I shall sign the letter I am going to write.”
“Do as you please, then.”
Raoul drew out his tablet, and wrote rapidly on one of the leaves the following words:
“MONSIEUR LE COMTE,—Do not be surprised to find this paper signed by me; the friend I shall very shortly send to call on you will have the honor to explain the object of my visit.
“VICOMTE RAOUL DE BRAGELONNE.”
He rolled up the paper, slipped it into the lock of the door which communicated with the room set apart for the two lovers, and satisfied himself that the missive was so apparent that Saint-Aignan could not but see it as he entered; he rejoined the princess, who had already reached the top of the staircase. They then separated, Raoul pretending to thank her highness; Henrietta pitying, or seeming to pity, with all her heart, the wretched young man she had just condemned to such fearful torture. “Oh!” she said, as she saw him disappear, pale as death, and his eyes bursting with blood, “if I had foreseen this, I would have hid the truth from that poor gentleman.”
Chapter LIV. Porthos’s Plan of Action.
The great number of individuals we have introduced into this long story is the reason why each of them has been forced to appear only in turn, according to the exigencies of the recital. The result is, that our readers have had no opportunity of meeting our friend Porthos since his return from Fontainebleau. The honors which he had received from the king had not changed the easy, affectionate character of that excellent-hearted man; he may, perhaps, have held up his head a little higher than usual, and a majesty of demeanor, as it were, may have betrayed itself since the honor of dining at the king’s table had been accorded him. His majesty’s banqueting-room had produced a certain effect on Porthos. Le Seigneur de Bracieux et de Pierrefonds delighted to remember that, during that memorable dinner, the numerous array of servants, and the large number of officials in attendance on the guests, gave a certain tone and effect to the repast, and seemed, as it were, to furnish the room. Porthos undertook to confer upon Mouston a position of some kind or other, in order to establish a sort of hierarchy among his other domestics, and to create a military household, which was not unusual among the great captains of the age, since, in the preceding century, this luxury had been greatly encouraged by Messieurs de Treville, de Schomberg, de la Vieuville, without alluding to M. de Richelieu, M. de Conde, and de Bouillon-Turenne. And, therefore, why should not he, Porthos, the friend of the king, and of M. Fouquet, a baron, and engineer, etc., why should not he, indeed, enjoy all the delightful privileges which large possessions and unusual merit invariably confer? Somewhat neglected by Aramis, who, we know, was greatly occupied with M. Fouquet; neglected, also, on account of his being on duty, by D’Artagnan; tired of Truchen and Planchet, Porthos was surprised to find himself dreaming, without precisely knowing why; but if any one had said to him, “Do you want anything, Porthos?” he would most certainly have replied, “Yes.” After one of those dinners, during which Porthos attempted to recall to his recollection all the details of the royal banquet, gently joyful, thanks to the excellence of the wines; gently melancholy, thanks to his ambitious ideas, Porthos was gradually falling off into a placid doze, when his servant entered to announce that M. de Bragelonne wished to speak to him. Porthos passed into an adjoining room, where he found his young friend in the disposition of mind we are already aware of. Raoul advanced towards Porthos, and shook him by the hand; Porthos, surprised at his seriousness of aspect, offered him a seat. “Dear M. du Vallon,” said Raoul, “I have a service to ask of you.”
“Nothing could happen more fortunately, my young friend,” replied Porthos; “I have eight thousand livres sent me this morning from Pierrefonds; and if you want any money—”
“No, I thank you; it is not money.”
“So much the worse, then. I have always heard it said that that is the rarest service, but the easiest to render. The remark struck me; I like to cite remarks that strike me.”
“Your heart is as good as your mind is sound and true.”
“You are much too kind, I declare. You will dine here, of course?”
“No; I am not hungry.”
“Eh! not dine? What a dreadful country England is!”
“Not too much so, indeed—but—”
“Well, if such excellent fish and meat were not to be procured there, it would hardly be endurable.”
“Yes, I came to—”
“I am listening. Only just allow me to take a little sip. One gets thirsty in Paris;” and he ordered a bottle of champagne to be brought; and, having first filled Raoul’s glass, he filled his own, drank it down at a gulp, and then resumed: “I needed that, in order to listen to you with proper attention. I am now entirely at your service. What do you wish to ask me, dear Raoul? What do you want?”
“Give me your opinion on quarrels in general, my dear friend.”
“My opinion! Well—but—Explain your idea a little more coherently,” replied Porthos, rubbing his forehead.
“I mean—you are
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