Knowing all that, and holding my tongue, what further would this heart wish in return for a kind action of M.Fouquet's, for an advance of fifteen thousand livres, for a diamond worth a thousand pistoles, for a smile in which there was as much bitterness as kindness? -- I save his life.""Now, then, I hope," continued the musketeer, "that this imbecile of a heart is going to preserve silence, and so be fairly quits with M.Fouquet.Now, then, the king becomes my sun, and as my heart is quits with M.Fouquet, let him beware who places himself between me and my sun! Forward, for his majesty Louis XIV.! -- Forward!"These reflections were the only impediments which were able to retard the progress of D'Artagnan.These reflections once made, he increased the speed of his horse.But, however perfect his horse Zephyr might be, it could not hold out at such a pace forever.The day after his departure from Paris, he was left at Chartres, at the house of an old friend D'Artagnan had met with in an hotelier of that city.From that moment the musketeer travelled on post-horses.Thanks to this mode of locomotion, he traversed the space separating Chartres from Chateaubriand.In the last of these two cities, far enough from the coast to prevent any one guessing that D'Artagnan wished to reach the sea -- far enough from Paris to prevent all suspicion of his being a messenger from Louis XIV., whom D'Artagnan had called his sun, without suspecting that he who was only at present a rather poor star in the heaven of royalty, would, one day, make that star his emblem; the messenger of Louis XIV., we say, quitted the post and purchased a bidet of the meanest appearance, -- one of those animals which an officer of cavalry would never choose, for fear of being disgraced.
Excepting the color, this new acquisition recalled to the mind of D'Artagnan the famous orange-colored horse, with which, or rather upon which, he had made his first appearance in the world.Truth to say, from the moment he crossed this new steed, it was no longer D'Artagnan who was travelling, -- it was a good man clothed in an iron-gray justaucorps, brown haut-de-chausses, holding the medium between a priest and a layman; that which brought him nearest to the churchman was, that D'Artagnan had placed on his head a calotte of threadbare velvet, and over the calotte, a large black hat; no more sword, a stick, hung by a cord to his wrist, but to which, he promised himself, as an unexpected auxiliary, to join, upon occasion, a good dagger, ten inches long, concealed under his cloak.The bidet purchased at Chateaubriand completed the metamorphosis; it was called, or rather D'Artagnan called it, Furet (ferret).
"If I have changed Zephyr into Furet," said D'Artagnan, "Imust make some diminutive or other of my own name.So, instead of D'Artagnan, I will be Agnan, short; that is a concession which I naturally owe to my gray coat, my round hat, and my rusty calotte."Monsieur D'Artagnan traveled, then, pretty easily upon Furet, who ambled like a true butter-woman's pad, and who, with his amble, managed cheerfully about twelve leagues a day, upon four spindle-shanks, of which the practiced eye of D'Artagnan had appreciated the strength and safety beneath the thick mass of hair which covered them.Jogging along, the traveler took notes, studied the country, which he traversed reserved and silent, ever seeking the most plausible pretext for reaching Belle-Isle-en-Mer, and for seeing everything without arousing suspicion.In this manner, he was enabled to convince himself of the importance the event assumed in proportion as he drew near to it.In this remote country, in this ancient duchy of Bretagne, which was not France at that period, and is not so even now, the people knew nothing of the king of France.They not only did not know him, but were unwilling to know him.One face -- a single one -- floated visibly for them upon the political current.Their ancient dukes no longer ruled them;government was a void -- nothing more.In place of the sovereign duke, the seigneurs of parishes reigned without control; and, above these seigneurs, God, who has never been forgotten in Bretagne.Among these suzerains of chateaux and belfries, the most powerful, the richest, and the most popular, was M.Fouquet, seigneur of Belle-Isle.Even in the country, even within sight of that mysterious isle, legends and traditions consecrate its wonders.Every one might not penetrate it: the isle, of an extent of six leagues in length, and six in breadth, was a seignorial property, which the people had for a long time respected, covered as it was with the name of Retz, so redoubtable in the country.
Shortly after the erection of this seignory into a marquisate, Belle-Isle passed to M.Fouquet.The celebrity of the isle did not date from yesterday; its name, or rather its qualification, is traced back to the remotest antiquity.
The ancients called it Kalonese, from two Greek words, signifying beautiful isle.Thus at a distance of eighteen hundred years, it had borne, in another idiom, the same name it still bears.There was, then, something in itself in this property of M.Fouquet's, besides its position of six leagues off the coast of France; a position which makes it a sovereign in its maritime solitude, like a majestic ship which disdains roads, and proudly casts anchor in mid-ocean.
D'Artagnan learnt all this without appearing the least in the world astonished.He also learnt that the best way to get intelligence was to go to La Roche-Bernard, a tolerably important city at the mouth of the Vilaine.Perhaps there he could embark; if not, crossing the salt marshes, he would repair to Guerande-en-Croisic, to wait for an opportunity to cross over to Belle-Isle.He had discovered, besides, since his departure from Chateaubriand, that nothing would be impossible for Furet under the impulsion of M.Agnan, and nothing to M.Agnan through the initiative of Furet.He prepared, then, to sup off a teal and a tourteau, in a hotel of La Roche-Bernard, and ordered to be brought from the cellar, to wash down these two Breton dishes, some cider, which, the moment it touched his lips, he perceived to be more Breton still.
