Since he was no longer in the service of any one, D’Artagnan had promised himself to indulge in sleeping as soundly as he had formerly slept lightly; but with whatever good faith D’Artagnan had made himself this promise, and whatever desire he might have to keep it religiously, he was awakened in the middle of the night by a loud noise of carriages, and servants on horseback. A sudden illumination flashed over the walls of his chamber; he jumped out of bed and ran to the window in his shirt. “Can the king be coming this way?” he thought, rubbing his eyes; “in truth, such a suite can only be attached to royalty.”
“Vive le monsieur le surintendant!” cried, or rather vociferated, from a window on the ground-floor, a voice which he recognized as Bazin’s, who at the same time waved a handkerchief with one hand, and held a large candle in the other. D’Artagnan then saw something like a brilliant human form leaning out of the principal carriage; at the same time loud bursts of laughter, caused, no doubt, by the strange figure of Bazin, and issuing from the same carriage, left, as it were, a train of joy upon the passage of the rapid cortege.
“I might easily see it was not the king,” said D’Artagnan; “people don’t laugh so heartily when the king passes. Hola, Bazin!” cried he to his neighbor, three-quarters of whose body still hung out of the window, to follow the carriage with his eyes as long as he could. “What is all that about?”
“It is M. Fouquet,” said Bazin, in a patronizing tone.
“And all those people?”
“That is the court of M. Fouquet.”
“Oh, oh!” said D’Artagnan; “what would M. de Mazarin say to that if he heard it?” And he returned to his bed, asking himself how Aramis always contrived to be protected by the most powerful personages in the kingdom. “Is it that he has more luck than I, or that I am a greater fool than he? Bah!” That was the concluding word by the aid of which D’Artagnan, having become wise, now terminated every thought and every period of his style. Formerly he said, “Mordioux!” which was a prick of the spur, but now he had become older, and he murmured that philosophical “Bah!” which served as a bridle to all the passions.
When D’Artagnan had perfectly convinced himself that the absence of the Vicar-General d’Herblay was real, and that his friend was not to be found at Melun or in its vicinity, he left Bazin without regret, cast an ill-natured glance at the magnificent Chateau de Vaux, which was beginning to shine with that splendor which brought on its ruin, and, compressing his lips like a man full of mistrust and suspicion, he put spurs to his pied horse, saying, “Well, well! I have still Pierrefonds left, and there I shall find the best man and the best filled coffer. And that is all I want, for I have an idea of my own.”