“Ah! dear friend! my good d’Artagnan,” said he, “what an excellent chance!”
“It is a chance, my reverend companion,” said d’Artagnan, “that I will call friendship. I seek you, as I always have sought you, when I had any grand enterprise to propose to you, or some hours of liberty to give you.”
“Ah! indeed,” said Aramis, without explosion, “you have been seeking me?”
“Eh! yes, he has been seeking you, Aramis,” said Porthos, “and the proof is that he has unharbored me at Belle-Isle. That is amiable, is it not?”
“Ah! yes,” said Aramis, “at Belle-Isle! certainly!”
Good!
said d’Artagnan; there is my booby Porthos, without thinking of it, has fired the first cannon of attack.
“At Belle-Isle!” said Aramis, “in that hole, in that desert! That is kind, indeed!”
“And it was I who told him you were at Vannes,” continued Porthos, in the same tone.
D’Artagnan armed his mouth with a finesse almost ironical.
“Yes, I knew, but I was willing to see,” replied he.
“To see what?”
“If our old friendship still held out; if, on seeing each other, our hearts, hardened as they are by age, would still let the old cry of joy escape, which salutes the coming of a friend.”
“Well, and you must have been satisfied,” said Aramis.
“So, so.”
“How is that?”
“Yes, Porthos said hush! and you—”
“Well! and I?”
“And you gave me your benediction.”
“What would you have, my friend?” said Aramis, smiling; “that is the most precious thing that a poor prelate, like me, has to give.”
“Indeed, my dear friend!”
“Doubtless.”
“And yet they say at Paris that the bishopric of Vannes is one of the best in France.”
“Ah! you are now speaking of temporal wealth,” said Aramis, with a careless air.
“To be sure, I wish to speak of that; I hold by it, on my part.”
“In that case, let me speak of it,” said Aramis, with a smile.
“You own yourself to be one of the richest prelates in France?”
“My friend, since you ask me to give you an account, I will tell you that the bishopric of Vannes is worth about twenty thousand livres a year, neither more nor less. It is a diocese which contains a hundred and sixty parishes.”
“That is very pretty,” said d’Artagnan.
“It is superb!” said Porthos.
“And yet,” resumed d’Artagnan, throwing his eyes over Aramis, “you don’t mean to bury yourself here forever?”
“Pardon me. Only I do not admit the word bury.”
“But it seems to me, that at this distance from Paris a man is buried, or nearly so.”
“My friend, I am getting old,” said Aramis; “the noise and bustle of a city no longer suit me. At fifty-seven we ought to seek calm and meditation. I have found them here. What is there more beautiful, and stern at the same time, than this old Armorica. I find here, dear d’Artagnan, all that is opposite to what I formerly loved, and that is what must happen at the end of life, which is opposite to the beginning. A little of my old pleasure of former times still comes to salute me here, now and then, without diverting me from the road of salvation. I am still of this world, and yet every step that I take brings me nearer to God.”
“Eloquent, wise and discreet; you are an accomplished prelate, Aramis, and I offer you my congratulations.”
“But,” said Aramis smiling, “you did not come here only for the purpose of paying me compliments. Speak; what brings you hither? May it be that, in some fashion or other, you want me?”
“Thank God, no, my friend,” said d’Artagnan, “it is nothing of that kind.—I am rich and free.”
“Rich!” exclaimed Aramis.
“Yes, rich for me; not for you or Porthos, understand. I have an income of about fifteen thousand livres.”
Aramis looked at him suspiciously. He could not believe—particularly on seeing his friend in such humble guise—that he had made so fine a fortune. Then d’Artagnan, seeing that the hour of explanations was come, related the history of his English adventures. During the recital he saw, ten times, the eyes of the prelate sparkle, and his slender fingers work convulsively. As to Porthos, it was not admiration he manifested for d’Artagnan; it was enthusiasm, it was delirium. When d’Artagnan had finished, “Well!” said Aramis.
“Well!” said d’Artagnan, “you see, then, I have in England friends and property, in France a treasure. If your heart tells you so, I offer them to you. That is what I came here for.”
However firm was his look, he could not this time support the look of Aramis. He allowed, therefore, his eye to stray upon Porthos—like the sword which yields to too powerful a pressure, and seeks another road.
“At all events,” said the bishop, “you have assumed a singular traveling costume, old friend.”
“Frightful! I know it is. You may understand why I would not travel as a cavalier or a noble; since I became rich, I am miserly.”
“And you say, then, you came to Belle-Isle?” said Aramis, without transition.
“Yes,” replied d’Artagnan; “I knew I should find you and Porthos there.”
“Find me!” cried Aramis. “Me! for the last year past I have not once crossed the sea.”
“Oh,” said d’Artagnan, “I should never have supposed you such a housekeeper.”
“Ah, dear friend, I must tell you that I am no longer the Aramis of former times. Riding on horseback is unpleasant to me; the sea fatigues me. I am a poor, ailing priest, always complaining, always grumbling, and inclined to the austerities which appear to accord with old age—preliminary parleyings with death. I linger, my dear d’Artagnan, I linger.”
“Well, that is all the better, my friend, for we shall probably be neighbors soon.”
“Bah!” said Aramis with a degree of surprise he did not even seek to dissemble. “You my neighbor!”
“Mordioux! yes.”
“How so?”
“I am about to purchase some very profitable salt-mines, which are situated between Piriac and Le Croisic. Imagine, my dear friend, a clear profit of twelve percent.
