Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Vicomte De Bragelonne by Alexandre Dumas (mini ebook reader txt) 📖
- Author: Alexandre Dumas
Book online «The Vicomte De Bragelonne by Alexandre Dumas (mini ebook reader txt) 📖». Author Alexandre Dumas
"Can you guess, now, what this is?" continued the poet.
"No," said D'Artagnan, "no, ma foi!"
"Well, monsieur," said M. Jupenet, "this little piece of metal is a printing letter."
"Bah!"
"A capital."
"Stop, stop, stop," said D'Artagnan, opening his eyes very innocently.
"Yes, monsieur, a capital; the first letter of my name."
"And this is a letter, is it?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"Well, I will confess one thing to you."
"And what is that?"
"No, I will not, I was going to say something stupid."
"No, no," said Master Jupenet, with a patronizing air.
"Well, then, I cannot comprehend, if that is a letter, how you can make a word."
"A word?"
"Yes, a printed word."
"Oh, that's very easy."
"Let me see."
"Does it interest you?"
"Enormously."
"Well, I will explain the thing to you. Attend."
"I am attending."
"This is it."
"Good."
"Look attentively."
"I am looking." D'Artagnan, in fact, appeared absorbed in observations. Jupenet drew from his pocket seven or eight other pieces of brass smaller than the first.
"Ah, ah," said D'Artagnan.
"What!"
"You have, then, a whole printing-office in your pocket. Peste! that is curious, indeed."
"Is it not?"
"Good God, what a number of things we learn by traveling."
"To your health!" said Jupenet, quite enchanted.
"To yours, mordioux, to yours. But--an instant--not in this cider. It is an abominable drink, unworthy of a man who quenches his thirst at the Hippocrene fountain--is not it so you call your fountain, you poets?"
"Yes, monsieur, our fountain is so called. That comes from two Greek words--hippos, which means a horse, and--"
"Monsieur," interrupted D'Artagnan, "you shall drink of a liquor which comes from one single French word, and is none the worse for that--from the word grape; this cider gives me the heartburn. Allow me to inquire of your host if there is not a good bottle of Beaugency, or of the Ceran growth, at the back of the large bins in his cellar."
The host, being sent for, immediately attended.
"Monsieur," interrupted the poet, "take care, we shall not have time to drink the wine, unless we make great haste, for I must take advantage of the tide to secure the boat."
"What boat?" asked D'Artagnan.
"Why the boat which sets out for Belle-Isle."
"Ah--for Belle-Isle," said the musketeer, "that is good."
"Bah! you will have plenty of time, monsieur," replied the hotelier, uncorking the bottle, "the boat will not leave this hour."
"But who will give me notice?" said the poet.
"Your fellow-traveler," replied the host.
"But I scarcely know him."
"When you hear him departing, it will be time for you to go."
"Is he going to Belle-Isle, likewise, then?"
"Yes."
"The traveler who has a lackey?" asked D'Artagnan. "He is some gentleman, no doubt?"
"I know nothing of him."
"What!--know nothing of him?"
"No, all I know is, that he is drinking the same wine as you."
"Peste!--that is a great honor for us," said D'Artagnan, filling his companion's glass, whilst the host went out.
"So," resumed the poet, returning to his dominant ideas, "you never saw any printing done?"
"Never."
"Well, then, take the letters thus, which compose the word, you see: A B; ma foi! here is an R, two E E, then a G." And he assembled the letters with a swiftness and skill which did not escape the eye of D'Artagnan.
"Abrege," said he, as he ended.
"Good!" said D'Artagnan; "here are plenty of letters got together; but how are they kept so?" And he poured out a second glass for the poet. M. Jupenet smiled like a man who has an answer for everything; then he pulled out--still from his pocket--a little metal ruler, composed of two parts, like a carpenter's rule, against which he put together, and in a line, the characters, holding them under his left thumb.
"And what do you call that little metal ruler?" said D'Artagnan, "for, I suppose, all these things have names."
"This is called a composing-stick," said Jupenet; "it is by the aid of this stick that the lines are formed."
"Come, then, I was not mistaken in what I said; you have a press in your pocket," said D'Artagnan, laughing with an air of simplicity so stupid, that the poet was completely his dupe.
"No," replied he; "but I am too lazy to write, and when I have a verse in my head, I print it immediately. That is a labor spared."
"Mordioux!" thought D'Artagnan to himself, "this must be cleared up." And under a pretext, which did not embarrass the musketeer, who was fertile in expedients, he left the table, went downstairs, ran to the shed under which stood the poet's little cart, and poked the point of his poniard into the stuff which enveloped one of the packages, which he found full of types, like those which the poet had in his pocket.
"Humph!" said D'Artagnan, "I do not yet know whether M. Fouquet wishes to fortify Belle-Isle; but, at all events, here are some spiritual munitions for the castle." Then, enchanted with his rich discovery, he ran upstairs again, and resumed his place at the table.
D'Artagnan had learnt what he wished to know. He, however, remained, none the less, face to face with his partner, to the moment when they heard from the next room symptoms of a person's being about to go out. The printer was immediately on foot; he had given orders for his horse to be got ready. His carriage was waiting at the door. The second traveler got into his saddle, in the courtyard, with his lackey. D'Artagnan followed Jupenet to the door; he embarked his cart and horse on board the boat. As to the opulent traveler, he did the same with his two horses and servant. But all the wit D'Artagnan employed in endeavoring to find out his name was lost--he could learn nothing. Only he took such notice of his countenance, that it was impressed upon his mind forever. D'Artagnan had a great inclination to embark with the two travelers, but an interest more powerful than curiosity--that of success--repelled him from the shore, and brought him back again to the hostelry. He entered with a sigh, and went to bed directly in order to be ready early in the morning with fresh ideas and the sage counsel of sufficing sleep.
At daybreak D'Artagnan saddled Furet, who had fared sumptuously all night, devouring the remainder of the oats and hay left by his companions. The musketeer sifted all he possibly could out of the host, who he found cunning, mistrustful, and devoted, body and soul, to M. Fouquet. In order not to awaken the suspicions of this man, he carried on his fable of being a probable purchaser of some salt-mines. To have embarked for Belle-Isle at Roche-Bernard, would have been to expose himself still further to comments which had, perhaps, been already made, and would be carried to the castle. Moreover, it was singular that this traveler and his lackey should have remained a mystery to D'Artagnan, in spite of all the questions addressed by him to the host, who appeared to know him perfectly well. The musketeer then made some inquiries concerning the salt-mines, and took the road to the marshes, leaving the sea on his right, and penetrating into that vast and desolate plain which resembles a sea of mud, of which, here and there, a few crests of salt silver the undulations. Furet walked admirably, with his little nervous legs, along the foot-wide causeways which separate the salt-mines. D'Artagnan, aware of the consequences of a fall, which would result in a cold bath, allowed him to go as he liked, contenting himself with looking at, on the horizon, three rocks, that rose up like lance-blades from the bosom of the plain, destitute of verdure. Piriac, the bourgs of Batz and Le Croisic, exactly resembling each other, attracted and suspended his attention. If the traveler turned round, the better to make his observations, he saw on the other side an horizon of three other steeples, Guerande, Le Pouliguen, and Saint-Joachim, which, in their circumference, represented a set of skittles, of which he and Furet were but the wandering ball. Piriac was the first little port on his right. He went thither, with the names of the principal salters on his lips. At the moment he reached the little port of Piriac, five large barges, laden with stone, were leaving it. It appeared strange to D'Artagnan, that stones should be leaving a country where none are found. He had recourse to all the amenity of M. Agnan to learn from the people of the port the cause of this singular arrangement. An old fisherman replied to M. Agnan, that the stones very certainly did not come from Piriac or the marshes.
"Where do they come from, then?" asked the musketeer.
"Monsieur, they come from Nantes and Paimboeuf."
"Where are they going, then?"
"Monsieur, to Belle-Isle."
"Ah! ah!" said D'Artagnan, in the same tone he had assumed to tell the printer that his character interested him; "are they building at Belle-Isle, then?"
"Why, yes, monsieur, M. Fouquet has the walls of the castle repaired every year."
"It is in ruins, then?"
"It is old."
"Thank you."
"The fact is," said D'Artagnan to himself, "nothing is more natural; every proprietor has a right to repair his own property. It would be like telling me I was fortifying the Image-de-Notre-Dame, when I was simply obliged to make repairs. In good truth, I believe false reports have been made to his majesty, and he is very likely to be in the wrong."
"You must confess," continued he then, aloud, and addressing the fisherman--for his part of a suspicious man was imposed upon him by the object even of his mission--"you must confess, my dear monsieur, that these stones travel in a very curious fashion."
"How so?" said the fisherman.
"They come from Nantes or Paimboeuf by the Loire, do they not?"
"With the tide."
"That is convenient,--I don't say it is not; but why do they not go straight from Saint-Nazaire to Belle-Isle?"
"Eh! because the chalands (barges) are fresh-water boats, and take the sea badly," replied the fisherman.
"That is not sufficient reason."
"Pardon me, monsieur, one may see that you have never been a sailor," added the fisherman, not without a sort of disdain.
"Explain to me, if you please, my good man. It appears to me that to come from Paimboeuf to Piriac, and go from Piriac to Belle-Isle, is as if we went from Roche-Bernard to Nantes, and from Nantes to Piriac."
"By water that would be the nearest way," replied the fisherman imperturbably.
"But there is an elbow?"
The fisherman shook his head.
"The shortest road from one place to another is a straight line," continued D'Artagnan.
"You forget the tide, monsieur."
"Well! take the tide."
"And the wind."
"Well, and the wind."
"Without doubt; the current of the Loire carries barks almost as far as Croisic. If they want to lie by a little, or to refresh the crew, they come to Piriac along the coast; from Piriac they find another inverse current, which carries them to the Isle-Dumal, two leagues and a half."
"Granted."
"There the current of the Vilaine throws them upon another isle, the Isle of Hoedic."
"I agree with that."
"Well, monsieur, from that isle to Belle-Isle the way is quite straight. The sea, broken both above and below, passes like a canal--like a mirror between the two isles; the chalands glide along upon it like ducks upon the Loire; that's how it is."
"It does not signify," said the obstinate M. Agnan; "it is a long way round."
"Ah! yes; but M. Fouquet will have it so," replied, as conclusive, the fisherman, taking off
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