“Yes,” replied De Comminges, “more especially if it could reveal how Monsieur d’Artagnan for this last week has been anathematizing him.”

“Poor D’Artagnan’” said Athos, with the charming melancholy that was one of the traits of his character, “so brave, so good, so terrible to the enemies of those he loves.  You have two unruly prisoners there, sir.”

“Unruly,” Comminges smiled; “you wish to terrify me, I suppose.  When he came here, Monsieur D’Artagnan provoked and braved the soldiers and inferior officers, in order, I suppose, to have his sword back.  That mood lasted some time; but now he’s as gentle as a lamb and sings Gascon songs, which make one die of laughing.”

“And Du Vallon?” asked Athos.

“Ah, he’s quite another sort of person —­ a formidable gentleman, indeed.  The first day he broke all the doors in with a single push of his shoulder; and I expected to see him leave Rueil in the same way as Samson left Gaza.  But his temper cooled down, like his friend’s; he not only gets used to his captivity, but jokes about it.”

“So much the better,” said Athos.

“Do you think anything else was to be expected of them?” asked Comminges, who, putting together what Mazarin had said of his prisoners and what the Comte de la Fere had said, began to feel a degree of uneasiness.

Athos, on the other hand, reflected that this recent gentleness of his friends most certainly arose from some plan formed by D’Artagnan.  Unwilling to injure them by praising them too highly, he replied:  “They?  They are two hotheads —­ the one a Gascon, the other from Picardy; both are easily excited, but they quiet down immediately.  You have had a proof of that in what you have just related to me.”

This, too, was the opinion of Comminges, who withdrew somewhat reassured.  Athos remained alone in the vast chamber, where, according to the cardinal’s directions, he was treated with all the courtesy due to a nobleman.  He awaited Mazarin’s promised visit to get some light on his present situation.

83

Strength and Sagacity.

Now let us pass the orangery to the hunting lodge.  At the extremity of the courtyard, where, close to a portico formed of Ionic columns, were the dog kennels, rose an oblong building, the pavilion of the orangery, a half circle, inclosing the court of honor.  It was in this pavilion, on the ground floor, that D’Artagnan and Porthos were confined, suffering interminable hours of imprisonment in a manner suitable to each different temperament.

D’Artagnan was pacing to and fro like a caged tiger; with dilated eyes, growling as he paced along by the bars of a window looking upon the yard of servant’s offices.

Porthos was ruminating over an excellent dinner he had just demolished.

The one seemed to be deprived of reason, yet he was meditating.  The other seemed to meditate, yet he was more than half asleep.  But his sleep was a nightmare, which might be guessed by the incoherent manner in which he sometimes snored and sometimes snorted.