Louise de la Valliere by Alexandre Dumas (best sales books of all time TXT) 📗

M. Fouquet’s own doctor. But just imagine, at the end of a week I could not breathe any longer.”

“What do you mean?”

“The room was too small; I had absorbed every atom of air.”

“Indeed?”

“I was told so, at least; and so I was removed into another apartment.”

“Where you were able to breathe, I hope and trust?”

“Yes, more freely; but no exercise—nothing to do. The doctor pretended that I was not to stir; I, on the contrary, felt that I was stronger than ever; that was the cause of a very serious accident.”

“What accident?”

“Fancy, my dear fellow, that I revolted against the directions of that ass of a doctor, and I resolved to go out, whether it suited him or not: and, consequently, I told the valet who waited on me to bring me my clothes.”

“You were quite naked, then?”

“Oh, no! on the contrary, I had a magnificent dressing-gown to wear. The lackey obeyed; I dressed myself in my own clothes, which had become too large for me; but a strange circumstance had happened,—my feet had become too large.”

“Yes, I quite understand.”

“And my boots too small.”

“You mean your feet were still swollen?”

“Exactly; you have hit it.”

“Pardieu! And is that the accident you were going to tell me about?”

“Oh, yes; I did not make the same reflection you have done. I said to myself: ‘Since my feet have entered my boots ten times, there is no reason why they should not go in the eleventh.’”

“Allow me to tell you, my dear Porthos, that on this occasion you failed in your logic.”

“In short, then, they placed me opposite to a part of the room which was partitioned; I tried to get my boot on; I pulled it with my hands, I pushed with all the strength of the muscles of my leg, making the most unheard-of efforts, when suddenly the two tags of my boot remained in my hands, and my foot struck out like a ballista.”

“How learned you are in fortification, dear Porthos.”

“My foot darted out like a ballista, and came against the partition, which it broke in; I really thought that, like Samson, I had demolished the temple. And the number of pictures, the quantity of china, vases of flowers, carpets, and window-panes that fell down were really wonderful.”

“Indeed!”

“Without reckoning that on the other side of the partition was a small table laden with porcelain—”

“Which you knocked over?”

“Which I dashed to the other side of the room,” said Porthos, laughing.

“Upon my word, it is, as you say, astonishing,” replied D’Artagnan, beginning to laugh also; whereupon Porthos laughed louder than ever.

“I broke,” said Porthos, in a voice half-choked from his increasing mirth, “more than three thousand francs worth of china—ha, ha, ha!”

“Good!” said D’Artagnan.

“I smashed more than four thousand francs worth of glass!—ho, ho, ho!”

“Excellent.”

“Without counting a luster, which fell on my head and was broken into a thousand pieces—ha, ha, ha!”

“Upon your head?” said D’Artagnan, holding his sides.

“On top.”

“But your head was broken, I suppose?”

“No, since I tell you, on the contrary, my dear fellow, that it was the luster which was broken, like glass, which, in point of fact, it was.”

“Ah! the luster was glass, you say.”

“Venetian glass! a perfect curiosity, quite matchless, indeed, and weighed two hundred pounds.”

“And it fell upon your head!”

“Upon my head. Just imagine, a globe of crystal, gilded all over, the lower part beautifully encrusted, perfumes burning at the top, with jets from which flame issued when they were lighted.”

“I quite understand, but they were not lighted at the time, I suppose?”

“Happily not, or I should have been grilled prematurely.”

“And you were only knocked down flat, instead?”

“Not at all.”

“How, ‘not at all?’”

“Why, the luster fell on my skull. It appears that we have upon the top of our heads an exceedingly thick crust.”

“Who told you that, Porthos?”

“The doctor. A sort of dome which would bear Notre-Dame.”

“Bah!”

“Yes, it seems that our skulls are made in that manner.”

“Speak for yourself, my dear fellow, it is your own skull that is made in that manner, and not the skulls of other people.”

“Well, that may be so,” said Porthos, conceitedly, “so much, however, was that the case, in my instance, that no sooner did the luster fall upon the dome which we have at the top of our head, than there was a report like a cannon, the crystal was broken to pieces, and I fell, covered from head to foot.”

“With blood, poor Porthos!”

“Not at all; with perfumes, which smelt like rich creams; it was delicious, but the odor was too strong, and I felt quite giddy from it; perhaps you have experienced it sometimes yourself, D’Artagnan?”

“Yes, in inhaling the scent of the lily of the valley; so that, my poor friend, you were knocked over by the shock and overpowered by the perfumes?”

“Yes; but what is very remarkable, for the doctor told me he had never seen anything like it—”

“You had a bump on your head I suppose?” interrupted D’Artagnan.

“I had five.”

“Why five?”

“I will tell you; the luster had, at its lower extremity, five gilt ornaments; excessively sharp.”

“Oh!”

“Well, these five ornaments penetrated my hair, which, as you see, I wear very thick.”

“Fortunately so.”

“And they made a mark on my skin. But just notice the singularity of it,