The Three Musketeers (Translated by Richard Pevear) - Alexandre Dumas [134]
“Ah, well, you see, my dear d’Artagnan, I’ve had a streak of bad luck,” Porthos replied with the most casual air in the world. “I wrote her to send me some fifty louis that I absolutely needed, seeing the position I was in.”
“Well?”
“Well, she must be visiting her estates, because she didn’t answer me.”
“Really?”
“No, she didn’t. So yesterday I sent her a second epistle more urgent than the first. But here you are, my most dear friend; let’s talk about you. I admit, I was beginning to be a bit worried about you.”
“But your host treats you well, it seems, my dear Porthos,” said d’Artagnan, pointing to the full pots and the empty bottles.
“So so!” replied Porthos. “Three or four days ago the impertinent fellow showed me his bill, and I threw them out, him and his bill; so that I’m here as a sort of victor, a kind of conqueror. And, as you see, always fearing my position may be stormed, I’m armed to the teeth.”
“However,” d’Artagnan said, laughing, “it seems you make sorties from time to time.”
And he pointed his finger at the bottles and pots.
“Not me, unfortunately!” said Porthos. “This wretched sprain keeps me in bed, but Mousqueton beats the bushes and brings back provisions. Mousqueton, my friend,” Porthos went on, “you see reinforcements have come, we need an extra supply of victuals.”
“Mousqueton,” said d’Artagnan, “you must do me a service.”
“What service, Monsieur?”
“You must give your recipe to Planchet. I might find myself besieged in my turn, and I wouldn’t mind if he let me enjoy the same advantages you gratify your master with.”
“Ah, my God, Monsieur,” said Mousqueton with a modest air, “nothing could be simpler! It’s a question of being adroit, that’s all. I was brought up in the country, and my father, in his spare time, was a bit of a poacher.”
“And what did he do the rest of the time?”
“Monsieur, he plied a trade which I have always found rather fortunate.”
“What was it?”
“As it was the time of the wars of the Catholics and the Huguenots, and he saw the Catholics exterminating the Huguenots, and the Huguenots exterminating the Catholics, all in the name of religion, he made up a mixed belief for himself, which allowed him to be now a Catholic, now a Huguenot. He was in the habit of strolling, with his blunderbuss on his shoulder, behind the hedges that line the roads, and when he saw a lone Catholic coming, the Protestant religion would win over his mind at once. He would lower his blunderbuss in the traveler’s direction; then, when he was ten paces away, he would begin a dialogue which almost always ended by the traveler relinquishing his purse in order to save his life. It goes without saying that, when he saw a Huguenot coming, he felt seized with such ardent Catholic zeal that he was unable to understand how, fifteen minutes ago, he could have doubted the superiority of our holy religion. For I, Monsieur, am a Catholic, my father, faithful to his principles, having made my elder brother a Huguenot.”
“And how did this worthy man end up?” asked d’Artagnan.
“Oh, in the most unfortunate way, Monsieur! One day he found himself on a sunken lane between a Huguenot and a Catholic with whom he had already had dealings, and both of whom recognized him. They joined forces against him and hanged him from a tree. Then they came to boast of their fine escapade in the tavern of the nearest village, where my brother and I were drinking.”
“And what did you do?” asked d’Artagnan.
“We let them talk,” Mousqueton picked up. “Then, as they took opposite routes on leaving the tavern, my brother went to lie in ambush on the Catholic’s way, and I on the Protestant’s. Two hours later it was all over, we had dealt with them both, while admiring our poor father’s foresight in having taken the precaution of raising each of us in a different religion.”
“Indeed, as you say, Mousqueton, your father seems to me to have been a most intelligent fellow. So you say that in