The Three Musketeers (Translated by Richard Pevear) - Alexandre Dumas [49]
“Not at all, it interests me very much,” cried d’Artagnan, “and for the moment I have absolutely nothing to do.”
“Yes, but I have my breviary to recite,” replied Aramis, “then some verses to compose at Mme d’Aiguillon’s request; then I have to go to the rue Saint-Honoré to buy rouge for Mme de Chevreuse. So you see, my dear friend, if you are not in a hurry, I certainly am.”
And Aramis affectionately held out his hand to his friend and took leave of him.
D’Artagnan, for all the pains he took, could find out nothing more about his three new friends. He chose therefore to believe for the present all that he had been told about their past, hoping for more certain and extensive revelations in the future. Meanwhile, he considered Athos an Achilles, Porthos an Ajax, and Aramis a Joseph.46
Besides, the life of the four young men was merry. Athos gambled, and always unluckily. However, he never borrowed a sou from his friends, though his purse was constantly at their service, and when he gambled on credit, he always woke up his creditor at six o’clock the next morning to pay him his debt from the day before.
Porthos had his impulses: on those days, if he won, he went around insolent and splendid; if he lost, he disappeared for several days, after which he reappeared looking pale and drawn, but with money in his pockets.
As for Aramis, he never gambled. He was quite the worst musketeer and the most miserable guest you could ever see. He always had to work. Sometimes, in the middle of a dinner, when everyone, carried away by the wine and the heat of conversation, thought they would remain at the table for a good two or three hours more, Aramis would look at his watch, get up with a gracious smile, and take leave of the company—to go, he said, and consult a casuist with whom he had a rendezvous. Other times he would return to his lodgings to write a thesis, and begged his friends not to distract him.
However, Athos would smile that charming, melancholy smile that suited his noble face so well, and Porthos would drink an oath that Aramis would never become a village priest.
Planchet, d’Artagnan’s valet, bore good fortune nobly. He received thirty sous a day, and for a month returned to his lodgings gay as a chaffinch and feeling affable towards his master. When the wind of adversity began to blow on the household of the rue des Fossoyeurs, that is to say, when the forty pistoles of King Louis XIII were eaten up, or almost, he began to complain in a way that Athos found nauseating, Porthos indecent, and Aramis ridiculous. Athos then advised d’Artagnan to dismiss the rascal, Porthos wanted him cudgeled first, and Aramis maintained that a master should only heed the compliments he was paid.
“That’s easy enough for you to say,” d’Artagnan picked up, “for you, Athos, who live mutely with Grimaud, who forbid him to speak, and who, consequently, never have any bad words from him; for you, Porthos, who live in a magnificent manner and are a god to your valet Mousqueton; for you, Aramis, who are always distracted by your theological studies, inspiring a deep respect in your servant Bazin, a gentle and religious man; but I, who am without substance and resources, I who am not a musketeer nor even a guard, what can I do to inspire affection, terror, or respect in Planchet?”
“It’s a grave matter,” replied the three friends. “It’s an internal affair. It’s the same with valets as with women: you have to put them straight away on the footing you want them to remain on. Reflect, then.”
D’Artagnan reflected and decided to thrash him for a start, which was done with the conscientiousness that d’Artagnan put into everything; then, after thrashing him well, he forbade him to leave his service without his permission. “For,” he added, “the future cannot fail me; I inevitably await better times. So your fortune is made if you stay with me, and I am too kind a master to make you miss your fortune by granting you the leave you are asking me for.”