“Well?” asked the bishop.
“Monseigneur, he has followed the course of the canal, and is going towards the sea,” said the servant.
“Very well!” said Aramis.
In fact, d’Artagnan, dismissing all suspicion, hastened towards the ocean, constantly hoping to see in the Landes, or on the beach, the colossal profile of Porthos. He persisted in fancying he could trace a horse’s steps in every puddle. Sometimes he imagined he heard the report of a gun. This illusion lasted three hours; during two of which he went forward in search of his friend—in the last he returned to the house.
“We must have crossed,” said he, “and I shall find them waiting for me at table.”
D’Artagnan was mistaken. He no more found Porthos at the palace than he had found him on the seashore. Aramis was waiting for him at the top of the stairs, looking very much concerned.
“Did my people not find you, my dear d’Artagnan?” cried he, as soon as he caught sight of the musketeer.
“No; did you send anyone after me?”
“I am deeply concerned, my friend, deeply, to have induced you to make such a useless search; but, about seven o’clock, the almoner of Saint-Paterne came here. He had met Du Vallon, who was going away, and who, being unwilling to disturb anybody at the palace, had charged him to tell me that, fearing M. Gétard would play him some ill turn in his absence, he was going to take advantage of the morning tide to make a tour of Belle-Isle.”
“But tell me, Goliath has not crossed the four leagues of sea, I should think.”
“There are full six,” said Aramis.
“That makes it less probable still.”
“Therefore, my friend,” said Aramis, with one of his blandest smiles, “Goliath is in the stable, well pleased, I will answer for it, that Porthos is no longer on his back.” In fact, the horse had been brought back from the relay by the direction of the prelate, from whom no detail escaped. D’Artagnan appeared as well satisfied with as possible with the explanation. He entered upon a part of dissimulation which agreed perfectly with the suspicions that arose more strongly in his mind. He breakfasted between the Jesuit and Aramis, having the Dominican in front of him, and smiling particularly at the Dominican, whose jolly, fat face pleased him much. The repast was long and sumptuous; excellent Spanish wine, fine Morbihan oysters, exquisite fish from the mouth of the Loire, enormous prawns from Paimboeuf, and delicious game from the moors, constituted the principal part of it. D’Artagnan ate much, and drank but little. Aramis drank nothing, unless it was water. After the repast—
“You offered me an arquebus,” said d’Artagnan.
“I did.”
“Lend it me, then.”
“Are you going shooting?”
“Whilst waiting for Porthos, it is the best thing I can do, I think.”
“Take which you like from the trophy.”
“Will you not come with me?”
“I would with great pleasure; but, alas! my friend, sporting is forbidden to bishops.”
“Ah!” said d’Artagnan, “I did not know that.”
“Besides,” continued Aramis, “I shall be busy till midday.”
“I shall go alone, then?” said d’Artagnan.
“I am sorry to say you must; but come back to dinner.”
“Pardieu! the eating at your house is too good to make me think of not coming back.” And thereupon d’Artagnan quitted his host, bowed to the guests, and took his arquebus; but instead of shooting, went straight to the little port of Vannes. He looked in vain to observe if anybody saw him; he could discern neither thing nor person. He engaged a little fishing boat for twenty-five livres, and set off at half-past eleven, convinced that he had not been followed; and that was true, he had not been followed; only a Jesuit brother, placed in the top of the steeple of his church, had not, since the morning, by the help of an excellent glass, lost sight of one of his steps. At three quarters past eleven, Aramis was informed that d’Artagnan was sailing towards Belle-Isle. The voyage was rapid; a good north northeast wind drove him towards the isle. As he approached, his eyes were constantly fixed upon the coast. He looked to see if, upon the shore or upon the fortifications the brilliant dress and vast stature of Porthos should stand out against a slightly clouded sky; but his search was in vain. He landed without having seen anything; and learnt from the first soldier interrogated by him, that M. du Vallon had not yet returned from Vannes. Then, without losing an instant, d’Artagnan ordered his little bark to put its head towards Sarzeau. We know that the wind changes with the different hours of the day. The breeze had veered from the north northeast to the southeast; the wind, then, was almost as good for the return to Sarzeau, as it had been for the voyage to Belle-Isle. In three hours d’Artagnan had touched the continent; two hours more sufficed for his ride to Vannes. In spite of the rapidity of his passage, what d’Artagnan endured of impatience and anger during that short passage, the deck alone of the vessel, upon which he stamped backwards and forwards for three hours, could testify. He made but one bound from the quay whereon he landed to the episcopal palace. He thought to terrify Aramis by the promptitude of his return; he wished to reproach him with his duplicity, and yet with reserve; but with sufficient spirit, nevertheless, to make him feel all the consequences of it, and force from him a part of his secret. He hoped, in short—thanks to that heat of expression which is to secrets what the charge with the bayonet is to redoubts—to bring the mysterious Aramis to some manifestation or other. But he found, in the vestibule of the palace, the valet de chambre, who
