30
How Mouston Had Become Fatter Without Giving
Porthos Notice Thereof, and of the Troubles Which Consequently
Befell That Worthy Gentleman
SINCE THE DEPARTURE OF Athos for Blois, Porthos
and d’Artagnan were seldom together. One was occupied with
harassing duties for the King; the other had been making many
purchases of furniture, which he intended to forward to his estate,
and by aid of which he hoped to establish in his various residences
something of that court luxury which he had witnessed in all its
dazzling brightness in His Majesty’s society. D‘Artagnan, ever
faithful, one morning during an interval of service, thought about
Porthos, and being uneasy at not having heard anything of him for a
fortnight, directed his steps towards his hotel, and pounced upon
him just as he was getting up. The worthy Baron had a pensive—nay,
more than pensive—a melancholy air. He was sitting on his bed, only
half-dressed, and with legs dangling over the edge, contemplating a
host of garments, which with their fringes, lace, embroidery, and
slashes of ill-assorted hues, were strewed all over the floor.
Porthos, sad and reflective, as La Fontaine’s hare, did not observe
d’Artagnan’s entrance, which was moreover screened at this moment
by M. Mouston, whose personal corpulency, quite enough at any time
to hide one man from another, was effectually doubled by a scarlet
coat which the attendant was holding up for his master’s
inspection, by the sleeves, that he might the better see it all
over. D‘Artagnan stopped at the threshold and looked at the pensive
Porthos; and then, as the sight of the innumerable garments
strewing the floor caused mighty sighs to heave from the bosom of
that excellent gentleman, d’Artagnan thought it time to put an end
to these dismal reflections, and coughed by way of announcing
himself.
“Ah!” exclaimed Porthos, whose countenance
brightened with joy; “ah, ah! Here is d’Artagnan. I shall then get
hold of an idea.”
At these words Mouston, doubting what was going on
behind him, got out of the way, smiling kindly at the friend of his
master, who thus found himself freed from the material obstacle
which had prevented his reaching d’Artagnan. Porthos made his
sturdy knees crack again in rising, and crossing the room in two
strides, found himself face to face with his friend, whom he folded
to his breast with a force of affection that seemed to increase
with every day. “Ah!” he repeated, “you are always welcome, dear
friend; but just now you are more welcome than ever.”
“But you seem in the dumps here?” exclaimed
d’Artagnan. Porthos replied by a look expressive of dejection.
“Well, then, tell me all about it, Porthos, my friend, unless it is
a secret.”
“In the first place,” returned Porthos, “you know I
have no secrets from you. This, then, is what saddens me.”
“Wait a minute, Porthos; let me first get rid of
all this litter of satin and velvet.”
“Oh, never mind,” said Porthos contemptuously; “it
is all trash.”
“Trash, Porthos! Cloth at twenty livres an ell!
gorgeous satin! regal velvet! ”
“Then you think these clothes are—”
“Splendid, Porthos, splendid! I’ll wager that you
alone in France have so many; and suppose you never had any more
made, and were to live a hundred years, which wouldn’t astonish me,
you could still wear a new dress the day of your death, without
being obliged to see the nose of a single tailor from now till
then.”
Porthos shook his head.
“Come, my friend,” said d’Artagnan, “this unnatural
melancholy in you frightens me. My dear Porthos, pray get out of it
then; and the sooner the better.”
“Yes, my friend, so I will; if indeed it is
possible.”
“Perhaps you have received bad news from
Bracieux?”
“No; they have felled the wood, and it has yielded
a third more than the estimate.”
“Then has there been a falling off in the pools of
Pierrefonds?”
“No; my friend; they have been fished, and there is
enough left to stock all the pools in the neighbourhood.”
“Perhaps your estate at Vallon has been destroyed
by an earthquake?”
“No, my friend; on the contrary, the ground was
struck by lightning a hundred paces from the château, and a
fountain sprang up in a place entirely destitute of water.”
“What in the world is the matter, then?”
“The fact is, I have received an invitation for the
fête at Vaux,” said Porthos, with a lugubrious expression.
“Well! do you complain of that? The King has caused
a hundred mortal heartburnings among the courtiers by refusing
invitations. And so, my dear friend, you are really going to
Vaux?”
“Indeed I am!”
“You will see a magnificent sight.”
“Alas! I doubt it, though.”
“Everything that is grand in France will be brought
together there! ”
“Ah!” cried Porthos, tearing out a lock of his hair
in despair.
“Eh! good Heavens, are you ill?” cried
d’Artagnan.
“I am as well as the Pont-Neuf! It isn’t
that.”
“But what is it then?”
“’Tis that I have no clothes!”
D’Artagnan stood petrified. “No clothes, Porthos;
no clothes!” he cried, “when I see at least fifty suits on the
floor.”
“Fifty, truly; but not one which fits me!”
“What! not one that fits you? But are you not
measured, then, when you give an order?”
“To be sure he is,” answered Mouston; “but
unfortunately I have grown stouter.”
“What! you stouter?”
“So much so that I am now bigger then the baron.
Would you believe it, monsieur?”
“Parbleu! it seems to me that is quite
evident.”
“Do you see, stupid?” said Porthos, “that is quite
evident!”
“But still, my dear Porthos,” resumed d’Artagnan,
becoming slightly impatient, “I don’t understand why your clothes
should not fit you, because Mouston has grown stouter.”
“I am going to explain it,” said Porthos. “You
remember having related to me the story of the Roman general
Antony, who had always seven wild boars kept roasting, each cooked
up to a different point; so that he might be able to have his
dinner at any time of the day he chose to ask for it. Well, then, I
resolved, as at any time I might be invited to court to spend a
week, I resolved to have always seven suits ready for the
occasion.”
“Capitally reasoned, Porthos—only a man must have a
fortune like yours to gratify such whims. Without counting the time
lost in being measured, the fashions are always changing.”
“That is exactly the point,” said Porthos, “in
regard to which I flattered myself I had hit on a very ingenious
device.”
“Tell me what it is; for I don’t doubt your
genius.”
“You remember what Mouston once was, then?”
“Yes; when he used to call himself
Mousqueton.”
“And you remember, too, the period when he began to
grow fatter?”
“No, not exactly. I beg your pardon, my good
Mouston.”
“Oh! you are not in fault, monsieur,” said Mouston
graciously. “You were in Paris, and as for us, we were at
Pierrefonds.”
“Well, well, my dear Porthos; there was a time when
Mouston began to grow fat. Is that what you wished to say?”
“Yes, my friend; and I greatly rejoice over the
period.”
“Indeed, I believe you do,” exclaimed
d’Artagnan.
“You understand,” continued Porthos, “what a world
of trouble it spared me.”
“No, I do not, though.”
“Look here, my friend. In the first place, as you
have said, to be measured is a toss of time, even though it occur
only once a fortnight. And then, one may be travelling; and then
you wish to have seven suits always with you. In short, I have a
horror of letting any one take my measure. Confound it! either one
is a nobleman or not. To be scrutinised and scanned by a fellow who
completely analyses you, by inch and line—’tis degrading ! Here,
they find you too hollow; there too prominent. They recognise your
strong and weak points. See, now, when we leave the measurer’s
hands, we are like those strongholds whose angles and different
thicknesses have been ascertained by a spy.”
“In truth, my dear Porthos, you possess ideas
entirely your own.”
“Ah! you see when a man is an engineer.”
“And has fortified Belle-Isle—’tis natural, my
friend.”
“Well, I had an idea, which would doubtless have
proved a good one, but for Mouston’s carelessness.”
D’Artagnan glanced at Mouston, who replied by a
slight movement of his body, as if to say, “You will see whether I
am at all to blame in all this.”
“I congratulated myself, then,” resumed Porthos,
“at seeing Mouston get fat; and I did all I could, by means of
substantial feeding, to make him stout—always in the hope that he
would come to equal myself in girth, and could then be measured in
my stead.”
“Ah!” cried d’Artagnan. “I see—that spared you both
time and humiliation.”
“Consider my joy, when, after a year and a half’s
judicious feeding—for I used to feed him up myself—the
fellow—”
“Oh! I lent a good hand myself, monsieur,” said
Mouston humbly.
“That’s true. Consider my joy when, one morning I
perceived Mouston was obliged to squeeze in, as I once did myself,
to get through the little secret door that those fools of
architects had made in the chamber of the late Madame du Vallon, in
the chateau of Pierrefonds. And, by the way, about that door, my
friend, I should like to ask you, who know everything, why these
wretches of architects, who ought by rights to have the compasses
in their eye, came to make doorways through which nobody but thin
people could pass?”
“Oh, those doors,” answered d’Artagnan, “were meant
for gallants, and they have generally slight and slender
figures.”
“Madame du Vallon had no gallant!” answered Porthos
majestically.
“Perfectly true, my friend,” resumed d’Artagnan;
“but the architects were imagining the possibility of your marrying
again.”
“Ah! that is possible,” said Porthos. “And now I
have received an explanation how it is that doorways are made too
narrow, let us return to the subject of Mouston’s fatness. But see
how the two things apply to each other. I have always noticed that
ideas run parallel. And so, observe this phenomenon, d’Artagnan. I
was talking to you of Mouston, who is fat, and it led us on to
Madame du Vallon—”
“Who was thin?”
“Hum! Is it not marvellous?”
“My dear friend, a savant of my acquaintance, M.
Costar, has made the same observation as you have, and he calls the
process by some Greek name which I forget.”
“What! my remark is not then original?” cried
Porthos, astounded. “I thought I was the discoverer.”
“My friend, the fact was known before Aristotle’s
days,—that is to say, nearly two thousand years ago.”
“Well, well, ’tis no less true,” said Porthos,
delighted at the idea of having concurred with the sages of
antiquity.
“Wonderfully—but suppose we return to Mouston. It
seems to me, we have left him fattening under our very eyes.”
“Yes, monsieur,” said Mouston.
“Well,” said Porthos, “Mouston fattened so well,
that he grat ified all my hopes, by reaching my standard; a fact of
which I was well able to convince myself, by seeing the rascal one
day in a waistcoat of mine, which he had turned into a coat—a
waistcoat, the mere embroidery of which was worth a hundred
pistoles.”
“’Twas only to try it on, monsieur,” said
Mouston.
“From that moment, I determined to put Mouston in
communication with my tailors, and to have him measured instead of
myself.”
“A capital idea, Porthos; but Mouston is a foot and
a half shorter than you.”
“Exactly! They measured him down to the ground, and
the end of the skirt came just below my knee.”
“What a wonder you are, Porthos! Such a thing could
happen only to you.”
“Ah! yes; pay your compliments; there is something
to do it upon. It was exactly at that time—that is to say nearly
two years and a half ago—that I set out for Belle-Isle, instructing
Mouston (so as always to have, in every event, a pattern of every
fashion) to have a coat made for himself every month.”
“And did Mouston neglect complying with your
instructions ? Ah! that would not be right, Mouston.”
“No, monsieur, quite the contrary, quite the
contrary.”
“No, he never forgot to have his coats made; but he
forgot to inform me that he had got stouter!”
“But it was not my fault, monsieur! your tailor
never told me.”
“And this to such an extent, monsieur,” continued
Porthos, “that the fellow in two years has gained eighteen inches
in girth, and so my last dozen coats are all too large, from a foot
to a foot and a half!”
“But the rest; those which were made when you were
of the same size?”
“They are no longer the fashion, my dear friend.
Were I to put them on, I should look like a fresh arrival from
Siam; and as though I had been two years away from court.”
“I understand your difficulty. You have how many
new suits? nine? thirty-six? and yet not one to wear. Well, you
must have a thirty-seventh made, and give the thirty-six to
Mouston.”
“Ah, monsieur!” said Mouston, with a gratified air,
“The truth is that monsieur has always been very generous to
me.”
“Do you mean to think that I hadn’t that idea, or
that I was deterred by the expense? But it wants only two days to
the fête; I received the invitation yesterday; made Mouston post
hither with my wardrobe, and only this morning discovered my
misfortune ; and from now till the day after to-morrow there isn’t
a single fashionable tailor who will undertake to make me a
suit.”
“That is to say, one covered all over with gold,
isn’t it?”
“I wish it so! all over!”
“Oh, we shall manage it. You won’t leave for three
days. The invitations are for Wednesday, and this is only Sunday
morning. ”
“’Tis true; but Aramis has strongly advised me to
be at Vaux twenty-four hours beforehand.”
“How, Aramis?”
“Yes, it was Aramis who brought me the
invitation.”
“Ah! to be sure, I see. You are invited on the part
of M. Fouquet.”
“By no means! by the King, dear friend. The letter
bears the following as large as life: ’M. le Baron du Vallon is
informed that the King has condescended to place him on the
invitation list—’”
“Very good; but you leave with M. Fouquet?”
“And when I think,” cried Porthos, stamping on the
floor, “when I think I shall have no clothes, I am ready to burst
with rage! I should like to strangle somebody or destroy
something.”
“Neither strangle anybody nor destroy anything,
Porthos; I will manage it all; put on one of your thirty-six suits
and come with me to a tailor.”
“Pooh! my agent has seen them all this
morning.”
“Even M. Percerin?”
“Who is M. Percerin?”
“Only the King’s tailor!”
“Oh, ah, yes,” said Porthos, who wished to appear
to know the King’s tailor, but now heard his name mentioned for the
first time;—“to M. Percerin’s, by Jove! I thought he would be too
much engaged.”
“Doubtless he will be; but be at ease, Porthos; he
will do for me what he won’t do for another. Only you must allow
yourself to be measured.”
“Ah!” said Porthos, with a sigh, “’tis vexatious,
but what would you have me do?”
“Do? as the others do; as the King does.”
“What! do they measure the King too? does he put up
with it?”
“The King is a beau, my good friend, and so are
you, too, whatever you may say about it.”
Porthos smiled triumphantly. “Let us go to the
King’s tailor,” he said; “and since he measures the King, I think,
by my faith, I may well allow him to measure me.”