the order to
Fouquet, without compromising himself, and without having thenceforward
any reproaches to make himself. When he had effected this proper
restitution, "Now," said he to himself, "let us inhale much maternal
air, much freedom from cares, much health, let us allow the horse
Zephyr, whose flanks puff as if he had to respire an atmosphere to
breathe, and let us be very ingenious in our little calculations. It is
time," said D'Artagnan, "to form a plan of the campaign, and, according
to the method of M. Turenne, who has a large head full of all sorts of
good counsels, before the plan of the campaign it is advisable to draw
a striking portrait of the generals to whom we are opposed. In the first
place, M. Fouquet presents himself. What is M. Fouquet? M. Fouquet,"
replied D'Artagnan to himself, "is a handsome man, very much beloved by
the women, a generous man very much beloved by the poets; a man of wit,
much execrated by pretenders. Well, now I am neither woman, poet, nor
pretender: I neither love nor hate monsieur le surintendant. I find
myself, therefore, in the same position in which M. de Turenne found
himself when opposed to the Prince de Conde at Jargeau, Gien and the
Faubourg Saint-Antoine. He did not execrate monsieur le prince, it is
true, but he obeyed the king. Monsieur le prince is an agreeable man,
but the king is king. Turenne heaved a deep sigh, called Conde 'My
cousin,' and swept away his army. Now what does the king wish? That
does not concern me. Now, what does M. Colbert wish? Oh, that's another
thing. M. Colbert wishes all that M. Fouquet does not wish. Then what
does M. Fouquet wish? Oh, that is serious. M. Fouquet wishes precisely
for all which the king wishes."

This monologue ended, D'Artagnan began to laugh, whilst making his whip
whistle in the air. He was already on the high road, frightening the
birds in the hedges, listening to the livres chinking and dancing in his
leather pocket, at every step; and, let us confess it, every time that
D'Artagnan found himself in such conditions tenderness was not his
dominant vice. "Come," said he, "I cannot think the expedition a very
dangerous one; and it will fall out with my voyage as with that piece
M. Monk took me to see in London, which was called, I think, 'Much Ado
about Nothing.'"

CHAPTER 66. The Journey

It was perhaps the fiftieth time since the day on which we open this
history, that this man, with a heart of bronze and mus