The Vicomte De Bragelonne eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 712 pages of information about The Vicomte De Bragelonne.

“Oh, certainly;” and both entered the chamber.  Porthos was stretched upon the bed; his face was violet rather than red; his eyes were swelled; his mouth was wide open.  The roaring which escaped from the deep cavities of his chest made the glass of the windows vibrate.  To those developed and clearly defined muscles starting from his face, to his hair matted with sweat, to the energetic heaving of his chin and shoulders, it was impossible to refuse a certain degree of admiration.  Strength carried to this point is semi-divine.  The Herculean legs and feet of Porthos had, by swelling, burst his stockings; all the strength of his huge body was converted into the rigidity of stone.  Porthos moved no more than does the giant of granite which reclines upon the plains of Agrigentum.  According to Pelisson’s orders, his boots had been cut off, for no human power could have pulled them off.  Four lackeys had tried in vain, pulling at them as they would have pulled capstans; and yet all this did not awaken him.  They had hacked off his boots in fragments, and his legs had fallen back upon the bed.  They then cut off the rest of his clothes, carried him to a bath, in which they let him soak a considerable time.  They then put on him clean linen, and placed him in a well-warmed bed — the whole with efforts and pains which might have roused a dead man, but which did not make Porthos open an eye, or interrupt for a second the formidable diapason of his snoring.  Aramis wished on his part, with his nervous nature, armed with extraordinary courage, to outbrave fatigue, and employ himself with Gourville and Pelisson, but he fainted in the chair in which he had persisted sitting.  He was carried into the adjoining room, where the repose of bed soon soothed his failing brain.

Chapter LXXV:  In which Monsieur Fouquet Acts.

In the meantime Fouquet was hastening to the Louvre, at the best speed of his English horses.  The king was at work with Colbert.  All at once the king became thoughtful.  The two sentences of death he had signed on mounting his throne sometimes recurred to his memory; they were two black spots which he saw with his eyes open; two spots of blood which he saw when his eyes were closed.  “Monsieur,” said he rather sharply, to the intendant; “it sometimes seems to me that those two men you made me condemn were not very great culprits.”

“Sire, they were picked out from the herd of the farmers of the financiers, which wanted decimating.”

“Picked out by whom?”

“By necessity, sire,” replied Colbert, coldly.

“Necessity! — a great word,” murmured the young king.

“A great goddess, sire.”

“They were devoted friends of the superintendent, were they not?”

“Yes, sire; friends who would have given up their lives for Monsieur Fouquet.”

“They have given them, monsieur,” said the king.

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The Vicomte De Bragelonne from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
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