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At four o'clock D'Artagnan recommenced his journey. He proceeded slowly and in deep reverie. Planchet also was lost in thought, but the subject of their reflections was not the same. One word which their landlady had pronounced had given a particular turn to D'Artagnan's deliberations; this was the name of Madame de Longueville. That name was indeed one to inspire imagination and produce thought.
"Oh, yes; but Madame has not conciliated that little woman he was so fond of." "What, the mercer's wife of the Rue des Fossoyeurs? Has he not already forgotten she ever existed? Fine vengeance that, on my faith!" A cold sweat broke from d'Artagnan's brow. Why, this woman was a monster! He resumed his listening, but unfortunately the toilet was finished.
"I have the plan of the fortifications of Belle-Isle," said the king. "Your majesty has the plan?" "Here it is." "It is really correct, sire: I saw a similar one on the spot." D'Artagnan's brow became clouded. "Ah! I understand all. Your majesty did not trust to me alone, but sent some other person," said he in a reproachful tone.
She looked at mankind from a cynical altitude of worldly wisdom; her wit grew keen and swift as d'Artagnan's rapier; her bon-mots had a way of passing into proverbs, or of being stolen by more distinguished contemporaries. She took her revenge upon society as completely as she could, yet without bitterness.
"Ha! ha!" cried Porthos, who was not completely taken in by D'Artagnan's Gasconades. "Come my brother, go with me," added D'Artagnan, "and I will see that you are made a duke!" "No," answered Porthos, "Mouston has no desire to fight; besides, they have erected a triumphal arch for me to enter my barony, which will kill my neighbors with envy."
It had been D'Artagnan's practice, ever since the riots, to sleep in the same room as Porthos, and on this eventful morning he was still there, sleeping, and dreaming that a yellow cloud had overspread the sky and was raining gold pieces into his hat, which he held out till it was overflowing with pistoles.
Perhaps he fancied from D'Artagnan's liveliness that he would leave with Porthos, so as not to lose the conclusion of a scene well begun. But, clear-sighted as he was, Aramis deceived himself. Porthos and Moliere left together: D'Artagnan remained with Percerin. Why? From curiosity, doubtless; probably to enjoy a little longer the society of his good friend Aramis.
D'Artagnan's legs cleared the distance in a short quarter of an hour. When he arrived at the residence of the new favorite, the court was full of archers and police, who came to congratulate him, or to excuse themselves, according to whether he should choose to praise or blame.
I understood but little of the merits of the book; my strongest memory is of the execution of d'Eymeric and Lyodot a strange testimony to the dulness of a boy, who could enjoy the rough-and-tumble in the Place de Greve, and forget d'Artagnan's visits to the two financiers. My next reading was in winter-time, when I lived alone upon the Pentlands.
"Monsieur," cried Raoul, pressing D'Artagnan's hand, "I entreat you in the name of the friendship you vowed my father!" "The deuce take it, you are really ill from curiosity." "No, it is not from curiosity, it is from love." "Good. Another big word. If you were really in love, my dear Raoul, you would be very different." "What do you mean?"
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