Aramis darted a look at Porthos, as if to ask if all this were true, if some snare were not concealed beneath this outward indifference. But soon, as if ashamed of having consulted this poor auxiliary, he collected all his forces for a fresh assault and new defense. “I heard that you had had some difference with the court, but that you had come out of it as you know how to get through everything, d’Artagnan, with the honors of war.”
“I!” said the musketeer, with a burst of laughter that did not conceal his embarrassment: for, from those words, Aramis was not unlikely to be acquainted with his last relations with the king. “I! Oh, tell me all about that, pray, Aramis?”
“Yes, it was related to me, a poor bishop, lost in the middle of the Landes, that the king had taken you as the confidant of his amours.”
“With whom?”
“With Mademoiselle de Mancini.”
D’Artagnan breathed freely again. “Ah! I don’t say no to that,” replied he.
“It appears that the king took you, one morning, over the bridge of Blois to talk with his ladylove.”
“That’s true,” said d’Artagnan. “And you know that, do you? Well, then, you must know that the same day I gave in my resignation!”
“What, sincerely?”
“Nothing more so.”
“It was after that, then, that you went to the Comte de la Fère’s?”
“Yes.”
“Afterwards to me?”
“Yes.”
“And then Porthos?”
“Yes.”
“Was it in order to pay us a simple visit?”
“No, I did no know you were engaged, and I wished to take you with me into England.”
“Yes, I understand; and then you executed alone, wonderful man as you are, what you wanted to propose to us all four. I suspected you had something to do with that famous restoration, when I learned that you had been seen at King Charles’s receptions, and that he appeared to treat you like a friend, or rather like a person to whom he was under an obligation.”
“But how the devil did you learn all that?” asked d’Artagnan, who began to fear that the investigation of Aramis had extended further than he wished.
“Dear d’Artagnan,” said the prelate, “my friendship resembles, in a degree, the solicitude of that night watch whom we have in the little tower of the mole, at the extremity of the quay. That brave man, every night, lights a lantern to direct the barks that come from sea. He is concealed in his sentry-box, and the fishermen do not see him; but he follows them with interest; he divines them; he calls them; he attracts them into the way to the port. I resemble this watcher; from time to time some news reaches me, and recalls to my remembrance all those I loved. Then I follow the friends of old days over the stormy ocean of the world, I, a poor watcher, to whom God has kindly given the shelter of a sentry-box.”
“Well, what did I do when I came from England?”
“Ah! there,” replied Aramis, “you get beyond my depth. I know nothing of you since your return. D’Artagnan, my eyes are dim. I regretted you did not think of me. I wept over your forgetfulness. I was wrong. I see you again, and it is a festival, a great festival, I assure you, solemnly! How is Athos?”
“Very well, thank you.”
“And our young pupil, Raoul?”
“He seems to have inherited the skill of his father, Athos, and the strength of his tutor, Porthos.”
“And on what occasion have you been able to judge of that?”
“Eh! mon Dieu! on the eve of my departure from Paris.”
“Indeed! tell me all about it!”
“Yes; there was an execution at the Grève, and in consequence of that execution, a riot. We happened, by accident, to be in the riot; and in this riot we were obliged to have recourse to our swords. And he did wonders.”
“Bah! what did he do?”
“Why, in the first place, he threw a man out of the window, as he would have flung a sack full of flock.”
“Come, that’s pretty well,” said Porthos.
“Then he drew, and cut and thrust away, as we fellows used to do in the good old times.”
“And what was the cause of this riot?” said Porthos.
D’Artagnan remarked upon the face of Aramis a complete indifference to this question of Porthos. “Why,” said he, fixing his eyes upon Aramis, “on account of the two farmers of the revenue, friends of M. Fouquet, whom the king forced to disgorge their plunder, and then hanged them.”
A scarcely perceptible contraction of the prelate’s brow showed that he had heard d’Artagnan’s reply. “Oh, oh!” said Porthos; “and what were the names of these friends of M. Fouquet?”
“MM. d’Eymeris and Lyodot,” said d’Artagnan. “Do you know these names, Aramis?”
“No,” said the prelate, disdainfully; “they sound like the names of financiers.”
“Exactly; so they were.”
“Oh! M. Fouquet allows his friends to be hanged, then,” said Porthos.
“And why not?” said Aramis.
“Why, it seems to me—”
“If these culprits were hanged, it was by order of the king. Now M. Fouquet, although superintendent of the finances, has not, I believe, the right of life and death.”
“That may be,” said Porthos; “but in the place of M. Fouquet—”
Aramis was afraid Porthos was about to say something awkward, so interrupted him. “Come, d’Artagnan,” said he; “this is quite enough about other people, let us talk a little about you.”
“Of me you know all that I can tell you. On the contrary let me hear a little about you, Aramis.”
“I have told you, my friend. There is nothing of Aramis left in me.”
“Nor of the Abbé d’Herblay even?”
“No, not even of him. You see a man whom Providence has taken by the hand, whom he has conducted to
