Chapter 54

Chapter LIV
The Friends of M. Fouquet
The King had returned to Paris, and with him d’Artagnan, who in twenty-four hours, having made with the greatest care all possible inquiries at Belle-Isle, had learned nothing of the secret so well kept by the heavy rock of Locmaria, which had fallen on the heroic Porthos. The captain of the Musketeers only knew what those two valiant men,- what these two friends, whose defence he had so nobly taken up, whose lives he had so earnestly endeavored to save,- aided by three faithful Bretons, had accomplished against a whole army. He had been able to see, launched on the neighboring heath, the human remains which had stained with blood the stones scattered among the flowering broom. He learned also that a boat had been seen far out at sea, and that, like a bird of prey, a royal vessel had pursued, overtaken, and devoured this poor little bird which was flying with rapid wings. But there d’Artagnan’s certainties ended. The field of conjectures was thrown open at this boundary. Now, what could he conjecture? The vessel had not returned. It is true that a brisk wind had prevailed for three days; but the corvette was known to be a good sailor and solid in its timbers; it could not fear gales of wind, and it ought, according to the calculation of d’Artagnan, to have either returned to Brest, or come back to the mouth of the Loire. Such was the news, ambiguous, it is true, but in some degree reassuring to him personally, which d’Artagnan brought to Louis XIV when the King, followed by all the court, returned to Paris.

Louis, satisfied with his success- Louis, more mild and more affable since he felt himself more powerful- had not ceased for an instant to ride close to the carriage door of Mademoiselle de la Valliere. Everybody had been anxious to amuse the two Queens, so as to make them forget this abandonment of the son and the husband. Everything breathed of the future; the past was nothing to anybody: only that past came like a painful and bleeding wound to the hearts of some tender and devoted spirits. Scarcely was the King reinstalled in Paris when he received a touching proof of this. Louis XIV had just risen and taken his first repast, when his captain of the Musketeers presented himself before him. D’Artagnan was pale and looked unhappy. The King, at the first glance, perceived the change in a countenance generally so unconcerned. “What is the matter, d’Artagnan?” said he.

“Sire, a great misfortune has happened to me.”

“Good heavens! what is it?”

“Sire, I have lost one of my friends, M. du Vallon, in the affair of Belle-Isle.” And while speaking these words, d’Artagnan fixed his falcon eye upon Louis XIV, to catch the first feeling that would show itself.

“I knew it,” replied the King, quietly.

“You knew