The Three Musketeers (Translated by Richard Pevear) - Alexandre Dumas [46]
“Well, now, Monsieur le cardinal, how are those men of yours, poor Bernajoux and poor Jussac, getting on?”
VII
THE MUSKETEERS AT HOME
Once outside the Louvre, d’Artagnan consulted his friends on what use he should make of his share of the forty pistoles. Athos advised him to order a good meal at the Pomme de Pin,42 Porthos to hire a lackey, and Aramis to take a suitable mistress.
The meal was executed that same day, and the lackey served at table. The meal had been ordered by Athos, and the lackey furnished by Porthos. He was a Picard43 whom the vainglorious musketeer had hired that same day and for this occasion on the Pont de la Tournelle, while he was spitting into the water to make rings.
Porthos had held that this occupation was proof of a reflective and contemplative organization, and had brought him along without further recommendation. The grand bearing of this gentleman, in whose service he believed himself engaged, had seduced Planchet—for that was the Picard’s name. He was slightly disappointed when he saw that the place had already been taken by a colleague named Mousqueton, and when Porthos pointed out to him that his household, though large, could not include two servants, and that he was to enter d’Artagnan’s service. However, when he assisted at the dinner given by his master, and saw the latter take a fistful of gold from his pocket in order to pay, he thought his fortune was made and thanked heaven that he had fallen into the possession of such a Croesus. He persevered in this opinion until after the feast, from the leftovers of which he rewarded himself for much abstinence. But when he went to make up his master’s bed in the evening, Planchet’s pipe dreams vanished. The bed was the only one in the apartment, which consisted of an antechamber and a bedroom. Planchet slept in the antechamber on a blanket taken from d’Artagnan’s bed, which d’Artagnan henceforth did without.
Athos, for his part, had a valet whom he had trained for his service in a rather special manner, and who was named Grimaud. He was extremely taciturn, this worthy lord. We are speaking of Athos, of course. For five or six years he had lived in the most profound intimacy with his companions Porthos and Aramis, the latter recalled having seen him smile often, but they had never heard him laugh. His utterances were brief and expressive, always saying what they meant to say and nothing more: no embellishments, no embroideries, no arabesques. His conversation was a fact without accessories.
Though Athos was barely thirty years old and was extremely handsome of body and mind, no one knew him to have a mistress. He never spoke of women. But he did not prevent people from speaking of them in front of him, though it was easy to see that this sort of conversation, which he mixed into only with bitter comments and misanthropic observations, was perfectly disagreeable to him. His reserve, his unsociability, and his silence made him almost an old man. Thus, in order not to depart from his habits, he had accustomed Grimaud to obeying him at a simple gesture or a simple movement of the lips. He never spoke to him except in ultimate circumstances.
Sometimes Grimaud, who feared his master like fire, though he had great affection for his person and great veneration for his genius, believed he had perfectly understood what he wanted, rushed to carry out the order received, and did precisely the contrary. Then Athos would shrug his shoulders and, without getting angry, give Grimaud a thrashing.
Porthos, as we have seen, had a character totally opposite to that of Athos: he not only talked a great deal, he also talked loudly; moreover, it mattered little to him—we must do him justice—whether anyone listened or not; he talked for the pleasure of talking and for the pleasure of hearing himself; he talked about everything except the sciences, pleading on that side the inveterate hatred which