France -- History -- Louis XIV, 1643-1715 -- Fiction
“And have you abandoned the service?”
“I have quitted it.”
“You have abandoned the king?”
“Quite.”
Porthos raised his arms towards heaven, like a man who has heard
extraordinary news. “Well, that does confound me,” said he.
“It is nevertheless true.”
“And what led you to form such a resolution?”
“The king displeased me. Mazarin had disgusted me for a long time, as
you know; so I threw my cassock to the nettles.”
“But Mazarin is dead.”
“I know that well enough, parbleu! Only, at the period of his death, my
resignation had been given in and accepted two months. Then, feeling
myself free, I set off for Pierrefonds, to see my friend Porthos. I had
heard talk of the happy division you had made of your time, and I
wished, for a fortnight, to divide mine after your fashion.”
“My friend, you know that it is not for a fortnight my house is open to
you; it is for a year—for ten years—for life.”
“Thank you, Porthos.”
“Ah! but perhaps you want money—do you?” said Porthos, making something
like fifty louis chink in his pocket. “In that case, you know——”
“No, thank you, I am not in want of anything. I placed my savings with
Planchet, who pays me the interest of them.”
“Your savings?”
“Yes, to be sure,” said D’Artagnan: “why should I not put by my
savings, as well as another, Porthos?”
“Oh, there is no reason why; on the contrary, I always suspected
you—that is to say, Aramis always suspected you to have savings. For my
own part, d’ye see, I take no concern about the management of my
household; but I presume the savings of a musketeer must be small.”
“No doubt, relative to yourself, Porthos, who are a millionaire; but
you shall judge. I had laid by twenty-five thousand livres.”
“That’s pretty well,” said Porthos, with an affable air.
“And,” continued D’Artagnan, “on the twenty-eighth of last month I
added to it two hundred thousand livres more.”
Porthos opened his large eyes, which eloquently demanded of the
musketeer, “Where the devil did you steal such a sum as that, my dear
friend?” “Two hundred thousand livres!” cried he, at length.
“Yes; which, with the twenty-five I had, and twenty thousand I have
about me, complete the sum of two hundred and forty-five thousand
livres.”
“But tell me, whence comes this fortune?”
“I will tell you all about it presently, dear friend; but as you have,
in the first place, many things to tell me yourself, let us have my
recital in its proper order.”
“Bravo!” said Porthos, “then we are both rich. But what can I have to
relate to you?”
“You have to relate to me how Aramis came to be named——”
“Ah! bishop of Vannes.”
“That’s it,” said D’Artagnan, “bishop of Vannes. Dear Aramis! do you
know how he succeeded so well?”
“Yes, yes; without reckoning that he does not mean to stop there.”
“What! do you mean he will not be contented with violet stockings, and
that he wants a red hat?”
“Hush! that is promised him.”
“Bah! by the king?”
“By somebody more powerful than the king.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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