The Three Musketeers (Translated by Richard Pevear) - Alexandre Dumas [48]
Porthos lived in an apartment of vast size and sumptuous appearance on the rue du Vieux-Colombier. Each time he passed with some friend in front of his windows, at one of which Mousqueton always stood in full livery, Porthos would raise his head and his hand, and say: “There’s my abode!” But he was never found at home, he never invited anyone to come up, and no one had any idea of what this sumptuous appearance enclosed by way of real riches.
As for Aramis, he lived in small quarters consisting of a boudoir, a dining room, and a bedroom, which bedroom, located on the ground floor like the rest of the apartment, gave onto a small garden, cool, green, shady, and impenetrable to neighboring eyes.
And as for d’Artagnan, we already know how he was lodged, and we have already made the acquaintance of his lackey, Master Planchet.
D’Artagnan, who was of a very curious nature, as people with a genius for intrigue generally are, made every effort to find out who Athos, Porthos, and Aramis really were; for, under these noms de guerre, each of the young men concealed his name as a gentleman, Athos above all, who smelled of a great lord a league away. He thus turned to Porthos for information about Athos and Aramis, and to Aramis for the truth about Porthos.
Unfortunately, Porthos himself knew nothing about his silent comrade’s life except what had come to light. It was said that he had known great misfortunes in his amorous affairs, and that a terrible betrayal had poisoned the gallant man’s life forever. What was this betrayal? No one knew.
As for Porthos, apart from his real name, which M. de Tréville alone knew, along with those of his two comrades, his life was easily learned. Vain and indiscreet, he could be seen through like a crystal. The only thing that could have thrown off the investigator would have been to believe all the good he said of himself.
As for Aramis, while he had an air of having no secrets, this was a lad all steeped in mysteries, responding little to questions put to him about others, and eluding those put to him about himself. One day, d’Artagnan, after having interrogated him for a long time about Porthos, and having learned the rumor then going around about the musketeer’s success with a princess, also wanted to know about his interlocutor’s amorous adventures.
“And you, my dear companion,” he said to him, “you who talk about other men’s baronesses, duchesses, and princesses?”
“Excuse me,” Aramis interrupted, “I talked about them because Porthos talks about them himself, because he has cried out all these pretty things in front of me. But believe me, my dear M. d’Artagnan, if I had them from another source, or he had told them to me in confidence, he could have had no confessor more discreet than I.”
“I don’t doubt it,” d’Artagnan picked up, “but actually it seems to me that you yourself are rather familiar with coats of arms—witness a certain embroidered handkerchief to which I owe the honor of your acquaintance.”
This time Aramis did not become angry, but put on his most modest air and replied affectionately:
“My dear, don’t forget that I wish to be in the Church, and I flee all worldly circumstances. That handkerchief you saw was never entrusted to me, it had been forgotten at my place by one of my friends. I had to take it so as not to compromise them, he and the lady he loves. As for me, I do not have and do not wish to have a mistress, following in this the highly judicious example of Athos, who has one no more than I do.”
“But, devil take it, you’re not an abbé, you’re a musketeer!”
“An interim musketeer, my dear, as the cardinal says, a musketeer against my will, but a man of the Church at heart, believe me. Athos and Porthos dragged me into it to keep me occupied: at the moment of my ordination,