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The Vicomte De Bragelonne
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The Vicomte De Bragelonne 209 at Prostate Health
all that, and holding my tongue, what further wouldthis heart wish in return for a kind action of M. Fouquets,for an advance of fifteen thousand livres, for a diamondworth a thousand pistoles, for a smile in which there was asmuch bitterness as kindness? -- I save his life.""Now, then, I hope," continued the musketeer, "that thisimbecile of a heart is going to preserve silence, and so befairly quits with M. Fouquet. Now, then, the king becomes mysun, and as my heart is quits with M. Fouquet, let himbeware who places himself between me and my sun! Forward,for his majesty Louis XIV.! -- Forward!"These reflections were the only impediments which were ableto retard the progress of DArtagnan. These reflections oncemade, he increased the speed of his horse. But, howeverperfect his horse Zephyr might be, it could not hold out atsuch a pace forever. The day after his departure from Paris,he was left at Chartres, at the house of an old friendDArtagnan had met with in an hotelier of that city. Fromthat moment the musketeer travelled on post-horses. Thanksto this mode of locomotion, he traversed the spaceseparating Chartres from Chateaubriand. In the last of thesetwo cities, far enough from the coast to prevent any oneguessing that DArtagnan wished to reach the sea -- farenough from Paris to prevent all suspicion of his being amessenger from Louis XIV., whom DArtagnan had called hissun, without suspecting that he who was only at present arather poor star in the heaven of royalty, would, one day,make that star his emblem; the messenger of Louis XIV., wesay, quitted the post and purchased a bidet of the meanestappearance, -- one of those animals which an officer ofcavalry would never choose, for fear of being disgraced.Excepting the color, this new acquisition recalled to themind of DArtagnan the famous orange-colored horse, withwhich, or rather upon which, he had made his firstappearance in the world. Truth to say, from the moment hecrossed this new steed, it was no longer DArtagnan who wastravelling, -- it was a good man clothed in an iron-grayjustaucorps, brown haut-de-chausses, holding the mediumbetween a priest and a layman; that which brought himnearest to the churchman was, that DArtagnan had placed onhis head a calotte of threadbare velvet, and over thecalotte, a large black hat; no more sword, a stick, hung bya cord to his wrist, but to which, he promised himself, asan unexpected auxiliary, to join, upon occasion, a gooddagger, ten inches long, concealed under his cloak. Thebidet purchased at Chateaubriand completed themetamorphosis; it was called, or rather DArtagnan calledit, Furet (ferret)."If I have changed Zephyr into Furet," said DArtagnan, "Imust make some diminutive or other of my own name. So,instead of DArtagnan, I will be Agnan, short; that is aconcession which I naturally owe to my gray coat, my roundhat, and my rusty calotte."Monsieur DArtagnan traveled, then, pretty easily uponFuret, who ambled like a true butter-womans pad, and who,with his amble, managed cheerfully about twelve leagues aday, upon four spindle-shanks, of which the practiced eye ofDArtagnan had appreciated the strength and safety beneaththe thick mass of hair which covered them. Jogging along,the traveler took notes, studied the country, which hetraversed reserved and silent, ever seeking the mostplausible pretext for reaching Belle-Isle-en-Mer, and forseeing everything without arousing suspicion. In thismanner, he was enabled to convince himself of the importancethe event assumed in proportion as he drew near to it. Inthis 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 onlydid not know him, but were unwilling to know him. One face-- a single one -- floated visibly for them upon thepolitical current. Their ancient dukes no longer ruled them;government was a void -- nothing more. In place of thesovereign duke, the seigneurs of parishes reigned withoutcontrol; and, above these seigneurs, God, who has never beenforgotten in Bretagne. Among these suzerains of chateaux andbelfries, the most powerful, the richest, and the mostpopular, was M. Fouquet, seigneur of Belle-Isle. Even in thecountry, even within sight of that mysterious isle, legendsand traditions consecrate its wonders. Every one might notpenetrate it: the isle, of an extent of six leagues inlength,
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