15
Porthos’s Plan of Action
THE NUMEROUS INDIVIDUALS WE have introduced into
this long story is the cause of each of them being obliged to
appear only in his own turn, and according to the exigencies of the
recital. The result is that our readers have had no opportunity of
again meeting our friend Porthos since his return from
Fontainebleau. The honours 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 demeanour as it were may
have betrayed itself since the honour of dining at the King’s table
had been accorded him. His Majesty’s banqueting-room had produced a
certain effect upon 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 who were in attendance upon the guests, gave a certain
tone and effect to the repast, and seemed to furnish the room.
Porthos undertook to confer upon Moustonq 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 Messrs. de Tréville, de Schomberg, de la Vienville,
without alluding to M. de Richelieu, M. de Condé, and de
Bouillon-Turenne. And therefore why should not he, Porthos, the
friend of the King, and of M. Fouquet, a baron, an engineer etc.,
why should not he indeed enjoy all the delightful privileges which
large possessions and unusual merit invariably confer? Slightly
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, half joyful, thanks to the excellence
of the wines; half melancholy, thanks to his ambitious ideas,
Porthos was gradually falling off into a gentle 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 dispositionof 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 had 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 too kind, I am sure. 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
something to drink. 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 quite at your service. What have you to ask me,
dear Raoul? What do you want?”
“Give me your opinion upon quarrels in general, my
dear friend.”
“My opinion! Well—but——Explain your idea a little,”
replied Porthos, rubbing his forehead.
“I mean—are you generally good-humoured, or
good-tempered, whenever any misunderstanding may arise between a
friend of yours and a stranger, for instance?”
“Oh! in the best of tempers.”
“Very good; but what do you do in such a
case?”
“Whenever any friend of mine has a quarrel, I
always act upon one principle.”
“What is that?”
“That all lost time is irreparable, and that one
never arranges an affair so well as when everything has been done
to embroil the dispute as much as possible.”
“Ah! indeed, that is the principle on which you
proceed.”
“Thoroughly; so soon as a quarrel takes place, I
bring the two parties together.”
“Exactly.”
“You understand that by this means it is impossible
for an af fair not to be arranged.”
“I should have thought that treated in this manner,
an affair would, on the contrary—”
“Oh! not the least in the world. Just fancy now, I
have had in my life something like a hundred and eighty to a
hundred and ninety regular duels, without reckoning hasty
encounters, or chance meetings.”
“It is a very handsome number,” said Raoul, unable
to resist a smile.
“A mere nothing; but I am so gentle. D’Artagnan
reckons his duels by hundreds. It is very true he is a little too
hard and sharp—I have often told him so.”
“And so,” resumed Raoul, “you generally arrange the
affairs of honour your friends confide to you.”
“There is not a single instance in which I have not
finished by arranging every one of them,” said Porthos, with a
gentleness and confidence which surprised Raoul.
“But the way in which you settle them is at least
honourable, I suppose?”
“Oh! rely upon that; and at this stage, I will
explain my other principle to you. As soon as my friend has
confided his quarrel to me, this is what I do. I go to his
adversary at once, armed with a politeness and self-possession
which are absolutely requisite under such circumstances.”
“That is the way, then,” said Raoul bitterly, “that
you arrange the affairs so safely.”
“I believe you. I go to the adversary, then, and
say to him, ‘It is impossible, monsieur, that you are ignorant of
the extent to which you have insulted my friend.’ ” Raoul frowned
at this remark.
“It sometimes happens—very often, indeed,” pursued
Porthos—“that my friend has not been insulted at all; he has even
been the first to give offence; you can imagine, therefore, whether
my language is not well chosen.” And Porthos burst into a peal of
laughter.
“Decidedly,” said Raoul to himself, while the
formidable thunder of Porthos’s laughter was ringing in his ears.
“I am very unfortunate. De Guiche treats me with coldness,
d’Artagnan with ridicule, Porthos is too tame, no one will settle
this affair in my way. And I came to Porthos because I wish to find
a sword instead of cold reasoning at my service. How my ill luck
follows me.”
Porthos, who had recovered himself, continued, “By
a simple expression, I leave my adversary without an excuse.”
“That is as it may happen,” said Raoul
distractedly.
“Not at all, it is quite certain. I have not left
him an excuse; and then it is that I display all my courtesy, in
order to attain the happy issue of my project. I advance,
therefore, with an air of great politeness, and, taking my
adversary by the hand, I say to him, ‘Now that you are convinced of
having given the offence, we are sure of reparation; between my
friend and yourself, the future can only offer an exchange of
mutual courtesies of conduct, and consequently, my mission is to
give you the length of my friend’s sword.’ ”
“What!” said Raoul.
“Wait a minute. ‘The length of my friend’s sword.
My horse is waiting below; my friend is in such and such a spot,
and is impatiently awaiting your agreeable society; I will take you
with me; we can call upon your second as we go along’; and the
affair is arranged.”
“And so,” said Raoul, pale with vexation, “you
reconcile the two adversaries on the ground.”
“I beg your pardon,” interrupted Porthos.
“Reconcile! What for? ”
“You said that the affair was arranged.”
“Of course! since my friend is waiting for
him.”
“Well! what then? If he is waiting—”
“Well! if he is waiting, it is merely to stretch
his legs a little. The adversary, on the contrary, is stiff from
riding; they place themselves in proper order, and my friend kills
his opponent, and the affair is ended.”
“Ah! he kills him, then?” cried Raoul.
“I should think so,” said Porthos. “Is it likely I
should ever have as a friend a man who allows himself to get
killed? I have a hundred and one friends; at the head of the list
stands your father, Aramis, and d’Artagnan, all of whom are living
and well, I believe.”
“Oh, my dear baron,” exclaimed Raoul delightedly,
as he embraced Porthos.
“You approve of my method, then?” said the
giant.
“I approve of it so thoroughly, that I shall have
recourse to it this very day, without a moment’s delay,—at once, in
fact. You are the very man I have been looking for.”
“Good; here I am, then; you want to fight, I
suppose?”
“Absolutely so.”
“It is very natural. With whom?”
“With M. de Saint-Aignan.”
“I know him—a most agreeable man, who was
exceedingly kind to me the day I had the honour of dining with the
King. I shall certainly acknowledge his politeness in return, even
if it had not happened to be my usual custom. So, he has given you
offence?”
“A mortal offence.”
“The deuce! I can say so, I suppose?”
“More than that, even, if you like.”
“That is a very great convenience.”
“I may look upon it as one of your arranged
affairs, may I not?” said Raoul, smiling.
“As a matter of course. Where will you be waiting
for him?”
“Ah! I forgot; it is a very delicate matter. M. de
Saint-Aignan is a very great friend of the King’s.”
“So I have heard it said.”
“So that if I kill him—”
“Oh! you will kill him, certainly; you must take
every precaution to do so. But there is no difficulty in these
matters now; if you had lived in our early days, oh! that was
something like!”
“My dear friend, you have not quite understood me.
I mean, that, M. de Saint-Aignan being a friend of the King, the
affair will be more difficult to manage, since the King might learn
beforehand—”
“Oh, no; that is not likely. You know my method:
‘Monsieur, you have injured my friend, and—’ ”
“Yes, I know it.”
“And then: ‘Monsieur, I have horses below,’ I carry
him off before he can have spoken to any one.”
“Will he allow himself to be carried off like
that?”
“I should think so! I should like to see it fail.
It would be the first time, if it did. It is true, though, that the
young men of the present day——Bah! I would carry him off bodily if
that were all,” and Porthos, adding gesture to speech, lifted Raoul
and the chair he was sitting on off the ground, and carried them
round the room.
“Very good,” said Raoul, laughing. “All we have to
do is to state the grounds of the quarrel to M. de
Saint-Aignan.”
“Well, but that is done, it seems.”
“No, my dear M. du Vallon, the usage of the present
day requires that the cause of the quarrel should be
explained.”
“Very good. Tell me what it is, then.”
“The fact is—”
“Deuce take it! see how troublesome this is. In
former days, we never had any occasion to say anything about the
matter. People fought then for the sake of fighting; and I, for
one, know no better reason than that.”
“You are quite right, M. du Vallon.”
“However, tell me what the cause is.”
“It is too long a story to tell; only as one must
particularise to some extent, and as, on the other hand, the affair
is full of difficulties, and requires the most absolute secrecy,
you will have the kindness merely to tell M. de Saint-Aignan that
he has, in the first place, insulted me by changing his
lodgings.”
“By changing his lodgings? Good,” said Porthos, who
began to count on his fingers—“next?”
“Then in getting a trap-door made in his new
apartments.”
“I understand,” said Porthos; “a trap-door; upon my
word this is very serious; you ought to be furious at that. What
the deuce does the fellow mean by getting trap-doors made without
first consulting you? Trap-doors! mordioux! I haven’t got
any, except in my dungeons at Bracieux.”
“And you will add,” said Raoul, “that my last
motive for considering myself insulted is, the portrait that M. de
Saint-Aignan well knows.”
“Is it possible? A portrait, too! A change of
residence, a trapdoor and a portrait! Why, my dear friend, with but
one of these causes of complaint there is enough, and more than
enough for all the gentlemen in France and Spain to cut each
others’ throats, and that is saying but very little.”
“Well, my dear friend, you are furnished with all
you need, I suppose?”
“I shall take a second horse with me. Select your
own rendezvous, and while you are waiting there, you can practise
some of the best passes, so as to get your limbs as elastic as
possible.”
“Thank you. I shall be waiting for you in the wood
of Vincennes, close to Minimes.”r
“All’s right, then. Where am I to find this M. de
Saint-Aignan?”
“At the Palais-Royal.”
Porthos rang a huge hand-bell. “My court suit,” he
said to the servant who answered the summons, “my horse, and a led
horse to accompany me.” Then, turning to Raoul, as soon as the
servant had quitted the room, he said, “Does your father know
anything about this?”
“No; I am going to write to him.”
“And d’Artagnan?”
“No, nor d’Artagnan either. He is very cautious,
you know, and might have diverted me from my purpose.”
“D‘Artagnan is a sound adviser though,” said
Porthos, astonished that, in his own loyal faith in d’Artagnan, any
one could have thought of himself so long as there was a d’Artagnan
in the world.
“Dear M. du Vallon,” replied Raoul, “do not
question me any more, I implore you. I have told you all that I had
to say; it is prompt action that I now expect, as sharp and decided
as you know how to arrange it. That, indeed, is my reason for
having chosen you.”
“You will be satisfied with me,” replied
Porthos.
“Do not forget, either, that except ourselves, no
one must know anything of this meeting.”
“People always find these things out,” said
Porthos, “when a dead body is discovered in a wood. But I promise
you everything, my dear friend, except concealing the dead body.
There it is, and it must be seen, as a matter of course. It is a
principle of mine, not to bury bodies. That has a smack of the
assassin about it. Every risk must run its own risk.”
“To work, then, my dear friend.”
“Rely upon me,” said the giant, finishing the
bottle, while the servant spread out upon a sofa the
gorgeously-decorated dress trimmed with lace.
Raoul left the room, saying to himself, with a
secret delight, “Perfidious King! traitorous monarch! I cannot
reach thee. I do not wish it; for kings are sacred objects. But
your friend, your accomplice, your panderer—the coward who
represents you—shall pay for your crime. I will kill him in thy
name, and afterwards we will think of Louise.”