บทที่ บทที่ 26 · Chapter XXVI.

. Chapter XXVI.

ARAMIS AND HIS THESIS

D’Artagnan had said nothing to Porthos of his wound or of his

procurator’s wife. Our Béarnais was a prudent lad, however young he

might be. Consequently he had appeared to believe all that the

vainglorious Musketeer had told him, convinced that no friendship will

hold out against a surprised secret. Besides, we feel always a sort of

mental superiority over those whose lives we know better than they

suppose. In his projects of intrigue for the future, and determined as

he was to make his three friends the instruments of his fortune,

D’Artagnan was not sorry at getting into his grasp beforehand the

invisible strings by which he reckoned upon moving them.

And yet, as he journeyed along, a profound sadness weighed upon his

heart. He thought of that young and pretty Mme. Bonacieux who was to

have paid him the price of his devotedness; but let us hasten to say

that this sadness possessed the young man less from the regret of the

happiness he had missed, than from the fear he entertained that some

serious misfortune had befallen the poor woman. For himself, he had no

doubt she was a victim of the cardinal’s vengeance; and, as was well

known, the vengeance of his Eminence was terrible. How he had found

grace in the eyes of the minister, he did not know; but without doubt

M. de Cavois would have revealed this to him if the captain of the

Guards had found him at home.

Nothing makes time pass more quickly or more shortens a journey than a

thought which absorbs in itself all the faculties of the organization

of him who thinks. External existence then resembles a sleep of which

this thought is the dream. By its influence, time has no longer

measure, space has no longer distance. We depart from one place, and

arrive at another, that is all. Of the interval passed, nothing remains

in the memory but a vague mist in which a thousand confused images of

trees, mountains, and landscapes are lost. It was as a prey to this

hallucination that D’Artagnan traveled, at whatever pace his horse

pleased, the six or eight leagues that separated Chantilly from

Crèvecœur, without his being able to remember on his arrival in the

village any of the things he had passed or met with on the road.

There only his memory returned to him. He shook his head, perceived the

cabaret at which he had left Aramis, and putting his horse to the trot,

he shortly pulled up at the door.

This time it was not a host but a hostess who received him. D’Artagnan

was a physiognomist. His eye took in at a glance the plump, cheerful

countenance of the mistress of the place, and he at once perceived

there was no occasion for dissembling with her, or of fearing anything

from one blessed with such a joyous physiognomy.

“My good dame,” asked D’Artagnan, “can you tell me what has become of

one of my friends, whom we were obliged to leave here about a dozen

days ago?”

“A handsome young man, three- or four-and-twenty years old, mild,

amiable, and well made?”

“That is he—wounded in the shoulder.”

“Just so. Well, monsieur, he is still here.”

“Ah, _pardieu!_ My dear dame,” said D’Artagnan, springing from his

horse, and throwing the bridle to Planchet, “you restore me to life;

where is this dear Aramis? Let me embrace him, I am in a hurry to see

him again.”

“Pardon, monsieur, but I doubt whether he can see you at this moment.”

“Why so? Has he a lady with him?”

“Jesus! What do you mean by that? Poor lad! No, monsieur, he has not a

lady with him.”

“With whom is he, then?”

“With the curate of Montdidier and the superior of the Jesuits of

Amiens.”

“Good heavens!” cried D’Artagnan, “is the poor fellow worse, then?”

“No, monsieur, quite the contrary; but after his illness grace touched

him, and he determined to take orders.”

“That’s it!” said D’Artagnan, “I had forgotten that he was only a

Musketeer for a time.”

“Monsieur still insists upon seeing him?”

“More than ever.”

“Well, monsieur has only to take the right-hand staircase in the

courtyard, and knock at Number Five on the second floor.”

D’Artagnan walked quickly in the direction indicated, and found one of

those exterior staircases that are still to be seen in the yards of our

old-fashioned taverns. But there was no getting at the place of sojourn

of the future abbé; the defiles of the chamber of Aramis were as well

guarded as the gardens of Armida. Bazin was stationed in the corridor,

and barred his passage with the more intrepidity that, after many years

of trial, Bazin found himself near a result of which he had ever been

ambitious.

In fact, the dream of poor Bazin had always been to serve a churchman;

and he awaited with impatience the moment, always in the future, when

Aramis would throw aside the uniform and assume the cassock. The

daily-renewed promise of the young man that the moment would not long

be delayed, had alone kept him in the service of a Musketeer—a service

in which, he said, his soul was in constant jeopardy.

Bazin was then at the height of joy. In all probability, this time his

master would not retract. The union of physical pain with moral

uneasiness had produced the effect so long desired. Aramis, suffering

at once in body and mind, had at length fixed his eyes and his thoughts

upon religion, and he had considered as a warning from heaven the

double accident which had happened to him; that is to say, the sudden

disappearance of his mistress and the wound in his shoulder.

It may be easily understood that in the present disposition of his

master nothing could be more disagreeable to Bazin than the arrival of

D’Artagnan, which might cast his master back again into that vortex of

mundane affairs which had so long carried him away. He resolved, then,

to defend the door bravely; and as, betrayed by the mistress of the

inn, he could not say that Aramis was absent, he endeavored to prove to

the newcomer that it would be the height of indiscretion to disturb his

master in his pious conference, which had commenced with the morning

and would not, as Bazin said, terminate before night.

But D’Artagnan took very little heed of the eloquent discourse of M.

Bazin; and as he had no desire to support a polemic discussion with his

friend’s valet, he simply moved him out of the way with one hand, and

with the other turned the handle of the door of Number Five. The door

opened, and D’Artagnan went into the chamber.

Aramis, in a black gown, his head enveloped in a sort of round flat

cap, not much unlike a _calotte_, was seated before an oblong table,

covered with rolls of paper and enormous volumes in folio. At his right

hand was placed the superior of the Jesuits, and on his left the curate

of Montdidier. The curtains were half drawn, and only admitted the

mysterious light calculated for beatific reveries. All the mundane

objects that generally strike the eye on entering the room of a young

man, particularly when that young man is a Musketeer, had disappeared

as if by enchantment; and for fear, no doubt, that the sight of them

might bring his master back to ideas of this world, Bazin had laid his

hands upon sword, pistols, plumed hat, and embroideries and laces of

all kinds and sorts. In their stead D’Artagnan thought he perceived in

an obscure corner a discipline cord suspended from a nail in the wall.

At the noise made by D’Artagnan in entering, Aramis lifted up his head,

and beheld his friend; but to the great astonishment of the young man,

the sight of him did not produce much effect upon the Musketeer, so

completely was his mind detached from the things of this world.

“Good day, dear D’Artagnan,” said Aramis; “believe me, I am glad to see

you.”

“So am I delighted to see you,” said D’Artagnan, “although I am not yet

sure that it is Aramis I am speaking to.”

“To himself, my friend, to himself! But what makes you doubt it?”

“I was afraid I had made a mistake in the chamber, and that I had found

my way into the apartment of some churchman. Then another error seized

me on seeing you in company with these gentlemen—I was afraid you were

dangerously ill.”

The two men in black, who guessed D’Artagnan’s meaning, darted at him a

glance which might have been thought threatening; but D’Artagnan took

no heed of it.

“I disturb you, perhaps, my dear Aramis,” continued D’Artagnan, “for by

what I see, I am led to believe that you are confessing to these

gentlemen.”

Aramis colored imperceptibly. “You disturb me? Oh, quite the contrary,

dear friend, I swear; and as a proof of what I say, permit me to

declare I am rejoiced to see you safe and sound.”

“Ah, he’ll come round,” thought D’Artagnan; “that’s not bad!”

“This gentleman, who is my friend, has just escaped from a serious

danger,” continued Aramis, with unction, pointing to D’Artagnan with

his hand, and addressing the two ecclesiastics.

“Praise God, monsieur,” replied they, bowing together.

“I have not failed to do so, your Reverences,” replied the young man,

returning their salutation.

“You arrive in good time, dear D’Artagnan,” said Aramis, “and by taking

part in our discussion may assist us with your intelligence. Monsieur

the Principal of Amiens, Monsieur the Curate of Montdidier, and I are

arguing certain theological questions in which we have been much

interested; I shall be delighted to have your opinion.”

“The opinion of a swordsman can have very little weight,” replied

D’Artagnan, who began to be uneasy at the turn things were taking, “and

you had better be satisfied, believe me, with the knowledge of these

gentlemen.”

The two men in black bowed in their turn.

“On the contrary,” replied Aramis, “your opinion will be very valuable.

The question is this: Monsieur the Principal thinks that my thesis

ought to be dogmatic and didactic.”

“Your thesis! Are you then making a thesis?”

“Without doubt,” replied the Jesuit. “In the examination which precedes

ordination, a thesis is always a requisite.”

“Ordination!” cried D’Artagnan, who could not believe what the hostess

and Bazin had successively told him; and he gazed, half stupefied, upon

the three persons before him.

“Now,” continued Aramis, taking the same graceful position in his easy

chair that he would have assumed in bed, and complacently examining his

hand, which was as white and plump as that of a woman, and which he

held in the air to cause the blood to descend, “now, as you have heard,

D’Artagnan, Monsieur the Principal is desirous that my thesis should be

dogmatic, while I, for my part, would rather it should be ideal. This

is the reason why Monsieur the Principal has proposed to me the

following subject, which has not yet been treated upon, and in which I

perceive there is matter for magnificent elaboration—‘_Utraque manus in

benedicendo clericis inferioribus necessaria est_.’”

D’Artagnan, whose erudition we are well acquainted with, evinced no

more interest on hearing this quotation than he had at that of M. de

Tréville in allusion to the gifts he pretended that D’Artagnan had

received from the Duke of Buckingham.

“Which means,” resumed Aramis, that he might perfectly understand,

“‘The two hands are indispensable for priests of the inferior orders,

when they bestow the benediction.’”

“An admirable subject!” cried the Jesuit.

“Admirable and dogmatic!” repeated the curate, who, about as strong as

D’Artagnan with respect to Latin, carefully watched the Jesuit in order

to keep step with him, and repeated his words like an echo.

As to D’Artagnan, he remained perfectly insensible to the enthusiasm of

the two men in black.

“Yes, admirable! _prorsus admirabile!_” continued Aramis; “but which

requires a profound study of both the Scriptures and the Fathers. Now,

I have confessed to these learned ecclesiastics, and that in all

humility, that the duties of mounting guard and the service of the king

have caused me to neglect study a little. I should find myself,

therefore, more at my ease, _facilius natans_, in a subject of my own

choice, which would be to these hard theological questions what morals

are to metaphysics in philosophy.”

D’Artagnan began to be tired, and so did the curate.

“See what an exordium!” cried the Jesuit.

“Exordium,” repeated the curate, for the sake of saying something.

“_Quemadmodum inter cœlorum immensitatem_.”

Aramis cast a glance upon D’Artagnan to see what effect all this

produced, and found his friend gaping enough to split his jaws.

“Let us speak French, my father,” said he to the Jesuit; “Monsieur

d’Artagnan will enjoy our conversation better.”

“Yes,” replied D’Artagnan; “I am fatigued with reading, and all this

Latin confuses me.”

“Certainly,” replied the Jesuit, a little put out, while the curate,

greatly delighted, turned upon D’Artagnan a look full of gratitude.

“Well, let us see what is to be derived from this gloss. Moses, the

servant of God—he was but a servant, please to understand—Moses blessed

with the hands; he held out both his arms while the Hebrews beat their

enemies, and then he blessed them with his two hands. Besides, what

does the Gospel say? _Imponite manus_, and not _manum_—place the

_hands_, not the _hand_.”

“Place the _hands_,” repeated the curate, with a gesture.

“St. Peter, on the contrary, of whom the Popes are the successors,”

continued the Jesuit; “_porrige digitos_—present the fingers. Are you

there, now?”

“_Certes_,” replied Aramis, in a pleased tone, “but the thing is

subtle.”

“The _fingers_,” resumed the Jesuit, “St. Peter blessed with the

_fingers_. The Pope, therefore blesses with the fingers. And with how

many fingers does he bless? With _three_ fingers, to be sure—one for

the Father, one for the Son, and one for the Holy Ghost.”

All crossed themselves. D’Artagnan thought it was proper to follow this

example.

“The Pope is the successor of St. Peter, and represents the three

divine powers; the rest—_ordines inferiores_—of the ecclesiastical

hierarchy bless in the name of the holy archangels and angels. The most

humble clerks such as our deacons and sacristans, bless with holy water

sprinklers, which resemble an infinite number of blessing fingers.

There is the subject simplified. _Argumentum omni denudatum ornamento_.

I could make of that subject two volumes the size of this,” continued

the Jesuit; and in his enthusiasm he struck a St. Chrysostom in folio,

which made the table bend beneath its weight.

D’Artagnan trembled.

“_Certes_,” said Aramis, “I do justice to the beauties of this thesis;

but at the same time I perceive it would be overwhelming for me. I had

chosen this text—tell me, dear D’Artagnan, if it is not to your

taste—‘_Non inutile est desiderium in oblatione_’; that is, ‘A little

regret is not unsuitable in an offering to the Lord.’”

“Stop there!” cried the Jesuit, “for that thesis touches closely upon

heresy. There is a proposition almost like it in the _Augustinus_ of

the heresiarch Jansenius, whose book will sooner or later be burned by

the hands of the executioner. Take care, my young friend. You are

inclining toward false doctrines, my young friend; you will be lost.”

“You will be lost,” said the curate, shaking his head sorrowfully.

“You approach that famous point of free will which is a mortal rock.

You face the insinuations of the Pelagians and the semi-Pelagians.”

“But, my Reverend—” replied Aramis, a little amazed by the shower of

arguments that poured upon his head.

“How will you prove,” continued the Jesuit, without allowing him time

to speak, “that we ought to regret the world when we offer ourselves to

God? Listen to this dilemma: God is God, and the world is the devil. To

regret the world is to regret the devil; that is my conclusion.”

“And that is mine also,” said the curate.

“But, for heaven’s sake—” resumed Aramis.

“_Desideras diabolum_, unhappy man!” cried the Jesuit.

“He regrets the devil! Ah, my young friend,” added the curate,

groaning, “do not regret the devil, I implore you!”

D’Artagnan felt himself bewildered. It seemed to him as though he were

in a madhouse, and was becoming as mad as those he saw. He was,

however, forced to hold his tongue from not comprehending half the

language they employed.

“But listen to me, then,” resumed Aramis with politeness mingled with a

little impatience. “I do not say I regret; no, I will never pronounce

that sentence, which would not be orthodox.”

The Jesuit raised his hands toward heaven, and the curate did the same.

“No; but pray grant me that it is acting with an ill grace to offer to

the Lord only that with which we are perfectly disgusted! Don’t you

think so, D’Artagnan?”

“I think so, indeed,” cried he.

The Jesuit and the curate quite started from their chairs.

“This is the point of departure; it is a syllogism. The world is not

wanting in attractions. I quit the world; then I make a sacrifice. Now,

the Scripture says positively, ‘Make a sacrifice unto the Lord.’”

“That is true,” said his antagonists.

“And then,” said Aramis, pinching his ear to make it red, as he rubbed

his hands to make them white, “and then I made a certain _rondeau_ upon

it last year, which I showed to Monsieur Voiture, and that great man

paid me a thousand compliments.”

“A _rondeau!_” said the Jesuit, disdainfully.

“A _rondeau!_” said the curate, mechanically.

“Repeat it! Repeat it!” cried D’Artagnan; “it will make a little

change.”

“Not so, for it is religious,” replied Aramis; “it is theology in

verse.”

“The devil!” said D’Artagnan.

“Here it is,” said Aramis, with a little look of diffidence, which,

however, was not exempt from a shade of hypocrisy:

“Vous qui pleurez un passé plein de charmes,

Et qui trainez des jours infortunés,

Tous vos malheurs se verront terminés,

Quand à Dieu seul vous offrirez vos larmes,

Vous qui pleurez!”

“You who weep for pleasures fled,

While dragging on a life of care,

All your woes will melt in air,

If to God your tears are shed,

You who weep!”

D’Artagnan and the curate appeared pleased. The Jesuit persisted in his

opinion. “Beware of a profane taste in your theological style. What

says Augustine on this subject: ‘_Severus sit clericorum verbo_.’”

“Yes, let the sermon be clear,” said the curate.

“Now,” hastily interrupted the Jesuit, on seeing that his acolyte was

going astray, “now your thesis would please the ladies; it would have

the success of one of Monsieur Patru’s pleadings.”

“Please God!” cried Aramis, transported.

“There it is,” cried the Jesuit; “the world still speaks within you in

a loud voice, _altisimâ voce_. You follow the world, my young friend,

and I tremble lest grace prove not efficacious.”

“Be satisfied, my reverend father, I can answer for myself.”

“Mundane presumption!”

“I know myself, Father; my resolution is irrevocable.”

“Then you persist in continuing that thesis?”

“I feel myself called upon to treat that, and no other. I will see

about the continuation of it, and tomorrow I hope you will be satisfied

with the corrections I shall have made in consequence of your advice.”

“Work slowly,” said the curate; “we leave you in an excellent tone of

mind.”

“Yes, the ground is all sown,” said the Jesuit, “and we have not to

fear that one portion of the seed may have fallen upon stone, another

upon the highway, or that the birds of heaven have eaten the rest,

_aves cœli comederunt illam_.”

“Plague stifle you and your Latin!” said D’Artagnan, who began to feel

all his patience exhausted.

“Farewell, my son,” said the curate, “till tomorrow.”

“Till tomorrow, rash youth,” said the Jesuit. “You promise to become

one of the lights of the Church. Heaven grant that this light prove not

a devouring fire!”

D’Artagnan, who for an hour past had been gnawing his nails with

impatience, was beginning to attack the quick.

The two men in black rose, bowed to Aramis and D’Artagnan, and advanced

toward the door. Bazin, who had been standing listening to all this

controversy with a pious jubilation, sprang toward them, took the

breviary of the curate and the missal of the Jesuit, and walked

respectfully before them to clear their way.

Aramis conducted them to the foot of the stairs, and then immediately

came up again to D’Artagnan, whose senses were still in a state of

confusion.

When left alone, the two friends at first kept an embarrassed silence.

It however became necessary for one of them to break it first, and as

D’Artagnan appeared determined to leave that honor to his companion,

Aramis said, “you see that I am returned to my fundamental ideas.”

“Yes, efficacious grace has touched you, as that gentleman said just

now.”

“Oh, these plans of retreat have been formed for a long time. You have

often heard me speak of them, have you not, my friend?”

“Yes; but I confess I always thought you jested.”

“With such things! Oh, D’Artagnan!”

“The devil! Why, people jest with death.”

“And people are wrong, D’Artagnan; for death is the door which leads to

perdition or to salvation.”

“Granted; but if you please, let us not theologize, Aramis. You must

have had enough for today. As for me, I have almost forgotten the

little Latin I have ever known. Then I confess to you that I have eaten

nothing since ten o’clock this morning, and I am devilish hungry.”

“We will dine directly, my friend; only you must please to remember

that this is Friday. Now, on such a day I can neither eat flesh nor see

it eaten. If you can be satisfied with my dinner—it consists of cooked

tetragones and fruits.”

“What do you mean by tetragones?” asked D’Artagnan, uneasily.

“I mean spinach,” replied Aramis; “but on your account I will add some

eggs, and that is a serious infraction of the rule—for eggs are meat,

since they engender chickens.”

“This feast is not very succulent; but never mind, I will put up with

it for the sake of remaining with you.”

“I am grateful to you for the sacrifice,” said Aramis; “but if your

body be not greatly benefited by it, be assured your soul will.”

“And so, Aramis, you are decidedly going into the Church? What will our

two friends say? What will Monsieur de Tréville say? They will treat

you as a deserter, I warn you.”

“I do not enter the Church; I re-enter it. I deserted the Church for

the world, for you know that I forced myself when I became a

Musketeer.”

“I? I know nothing about it.”

“You don’t know I quit the seminary?”

“Not at all.”

“This is my story, then. Besides, the Scriptures say, ‘Confess

yourselves to one another,’ and I confess to you, D’Artagnan.”

“And I give you absolution beforehand. You see I am a good sort of a

man.”

“Do not jest about holy things, my friend.”

“Go on, then, I listen.”

“I had been at the seminary from nine years old; in three days I should

have been twenty. I was about to become an abbé, and all was arranged.

One evening I went, according to custom, to a house which I frequented

with much pleasure: when one is young, what can be expected?—one is

weak. An officer who saw me, with a jealous eye, reading the _Lives of

the Saints_ to the mistress of the house, entered suddenly and without

being announced. That evening I had translated an episode of Judith,

and had just communicated my verses to the lady, who gave me all sorts

of compliments, and leaning on my shoulder, was reading them a second

time with me. Her pose, which I must admit was rather free, wounded

this officer. He said nothing; but when I went out he followed, and

quickly came up with me. ‘Monsieur the Abbé,’ said he, ‘do you like

blows with a cane?’ ‘I cannot say, monsieur,’ answered I; ‘no one has

ever dared to give me any.’ ‘Well, listen to me, then, Monsieur the

Abbé! If you venture again into the house in which I have met you this

evening, I will dare it myself.’ I really think I must have been

frightened. I became very pale; I felt my legs fail me; I sought for a

reply, but could find none—I was silent. The officer waited for his

reply, and seeing it so long coming, he burst into a laugh, turned upon

his heel, and re-entered the house. I returned to the seminary.

“I am a gentleman born, and my blood is warm, as you may have remarked,

my dear D’Artagnan. The insult was terrible, and although unknown to

the rest of the world, I felt it live and fester at the bottom of my

heart. I informed my superiors that I did not feel myself sufficiently

prepared for ordination, and at my request the ceremony was postponed

for a year. I sought out the best fencing master in Paris, I made an

agreement with him to take a lesson every day, and every day for a year

I took that lesson. Then, on the anniversary of the day on which I had

been insulted, I hung my cassock on a peg, assumed the costume of a

cavalier, and went to a ball given by a lady friend of mine and to

which I knew my man was invited. It was in the Rue des

France-Bourgeois, close to La Force. As I expected, my officer was

there. I went up to him as he was singing a love ditty and looking

tenderly at a lady, and interrupted him exactly in the middle of the

second couplet. ‘Monsieur,’ said I, ‘does it still displease you that I

should frequent a certain house of La Rue Payenne? And would you still

cane me if I took it into my head to disobey you? The officer looked at

me with astonishment, and then said, ‘What is your business with me,

monsieur? I do not know you.’ ‘I am,’ said I, ‘the little abbé who

reads _Lives of the Saints_, and translates Judith into verse.’ ‘Ah,

ah! I recollect now,’ said the officer, in a jeering tone; ‘well, what

do you want with me?’ ‘I want you to spare time to take a walk with

me.’ ‘Tomorrow morning, if you like, with the greatest pleasure.’ ‘No,

not tomorrow morning, if you please, but immediately.’ ‘If you

absolutely insist.’ ‘I do insist upon it.’ ‘Come, then. Ladies,’ said

the officer, ‘do not disturb yourselves; allow me time just to kill

this gentleman, and I will return and finish the last couplet.’

“We went out. I took him to the Rue Payenne, to exactly the same spot

where, a year before, at the very same hour, he had paid me the

compliment I have related to you. It was a superb moonlight night. We

immediately drew, and at the first pass I laid him stark dead.”

“The devil!” cried D’Artagnan.

“Now,” continued Aramis, “as the ladies did not see the singer come

back, and as he was found in the Rue Payenne with a great sword wound

through his body, it was supposed that I had accommodated him thus; and

the matter created some scandal which obliged me to renounce the

cassock for a time. Athos, whose acquaintance I made about that period,

and Porthos, who had in addition to my lessons taught me some effective

tricks of fence, prevailed upon me to solicit the uniform of a

Musketeer. The king entertained great regard for my father, who had

fallen at the siege of Arras, and the uniform was granted. You may

understand that the moment has come for me to re-enter the bosom of the

Church.”

“And why today, rather than yesterday or tomorrow? What has happened to

you today, to raise all these melancholy ideas?”

“This wound, my dear D’Artagnan, has been a warning to me from heaven.”

“This wound? Bah, it is now nearly healed, and I am sure it is not that

which gives you the most pain.”

“What, then?” said Aramis, blushing.

“You have one at heart, Aramis, one deeper and more painful—a wound

made by a woman.”

The eye of Aramis kindled in spite of himself.

“Ah,” said he, dissembling his emotion under a feigned carelessness,

“do not talk of such things, and suffer love pains? _Vanitas

vanitatum!_ According to your idea, then, my brain is turned. And for

whom—for some _grisette_, some chambermaid with whom I have trifled in

some garrison? Fie!”

“Pardon, my dear Aramis, but I thought you carried your eyes higher.”

“Higher? And who am I, to nourish such ambition? A poor Musketeer, a

beggar, an unknown—who hates slavery, and finds himself ill-placed in

the world.”

“Aramis, Aramis!” cried D’Artagnan, looking at his friend with an air

of doubt.

“Dust I am, and to dust I return. Life is full of humiliations and

sorrows,” continued he, becoming still more melancholy; “all the ties

which attach him to life break in the hand of man, particularly the

golden ties. Oh, my dear D’Artagnan,” resumed Aramis, giving to his

voice a slight tone of bitterness, “trust me! Conceal your wounds when

you have any; silence is the last joy of the unhappy. Beware of giving

anyone the clue to your griefs; the curious suck our tears as flies

suck the blood of a wounded hart.”

“Alas, my dear Aramis,” said D’Artagnan, in his turn heaving a profound

sigh, “that is my story you are relating!”

“How?”

“Yes; a woman whom I love, whom I adore, has just been torn from me by

force. I do not know where she is or whither they have conducted her.

She is perhaps a prisoner; she is perhaps dead!”

“Yes, but you have at least this consolation, that you can say to

yourself she has not quit you voluntarily, that if you learn no news of

her, it is because all communication with you is interdicted; while I—”

“Well?”

“Nothing,” replied Aramis, “nothing.”

“So you renounce the world, then, forever; that is a settled thing—a

resolution registered!”

“Forever! You are my friend today; tomorrow you will be no more to me

than a shadow, or rather, even, you will no longer exist. As for the

world, it is a sepulcher and nothing else.”

“The devil! All this is very sad which you tell me.”

“What will you? My vocation commands me; it carries me away.”

D’Artagnan smiled, but made no answer.

Aramis continued, “And yet, while I do belong to the earth, I wish to

speak of you—of our friends.”

“And on my part,” said D’Artagnan, “I wished to speak of you, but I

find you so completely detached from everything! To love you cry, ‘Fie!

Friends are shadows! The world is a sepulcher!’”

“Alas, you will find it so yourself,” said Aramis, with a sigh.

“Well, then, let us say no more about it,” said D’Artagnan; “and let us

burn this letter, which, no doubt, announces to you some fresh

infidelity of your _grisette_ or your chambermaid.”

“What letter?” cried Aramis, eagerly.

“A letter which was sent to your abode in your absence, and which was

given to me for you.”

“But from whom is that letter?”

“Oh, from some heartbroken waiting woman, some desponding _grisette;_

from Madame de Chevreuse’s chambermaid, perhaps, who was obliged to

return to Tours with her mistress, and who, in order to appear smart

and attractive, stole some perfumed paper, and sealed her letter with a

duchess’s coronet.”

“What do you say?”

“Hold! I must have lost it,” said the young man maliciously, pretending

to search for it. “But fortunately the world is a sepulcher; the men,

and consequently the women, are but shadows, and love is a sentiment to

which you cry, ‘Fie! Fie!’”

“D’Artagnan, D’Artagnan,” cried Aramis, “you are killing me!”

“Well, here it is at last!” said D’Artagnan, as he drew the letter from

his pocket.

Aramis made a bound, seized the letter, read it, or rather devoured it,

his countenance radiant.

“This same waiting maid seems to have an agreeable style,” said the

messenger, carelessly.

“Thanks, D’Artagnan, thanks!” cried Aramis, almost in a state of

delirium. “She was forced to return to Tours; she is not faithless; she

still loves me! Come, my friend, come, let me embrace you. Happiness

almost stifles me!”

The two friends began to dance around the venerable St. Chrysostom,

kicking about famously the sheets of the thesis, which had fallen on

the floor.

At that moment Bazin entered with the spinach and the omelet.

“Be off, you wretch!” cried Aramis, throwing his skullcap in his face.

“Return whence you came; take back those horrible vegetables, and that

poor kickshaw! Order a larded hare, a fat capon, mutton leg dressed

with garlic, and four bottles of old Burgundy.”

Bazin, who looked at his master, without comprehending the cause of

this change, in a melancholy manner, allowed the omelet to slip into

the spinach, and the spinach onto the floor.

“Now this is the moment to consecrate your existence to the King of

kings,” said D’Artagnan, “if you persist in offering him a civility.

_Non inutile desiderium oblatione_.”

“Go to the devil with your Latin. Let us drink, my dear D’Artagnan,

_morbleu!_ Let us drink while the wine is fresh! Let us drink heartily,

and while we do so, tell me a little of what is going on in the world

yonder.”