“Oh, let us hope,” said Aramis, “that with the help of God and of Bazin we shall find something better than that in the larder of the worthy Jesuit fathers. Bazin, my friend, come here.”
The door opened and Bazin entered; on perceiving the musketeer he uttered an exclamation that was almost a cry of despair.
“My dear Bazin,” said d’Artagnan, “I am delighted to see with what wonderful composure you can tell a lie even in church!”
“Sir,” replied Bazin, “I have been taught by the good Jesuit fathers that it is permitted to tell a falsehood when it is told in a good cause.”
“So far well,” said Aramis; “we are dying of hunger. Serve us up the best supper you can, and especially give us some good wine.”
Bazin bowed low, sighed, and left the room.
“Now we are alone, dear Aramis,” said d’Artagnan, “tell me how the devil you managed to alight upon the back of Planchet’s horse.”
“I’faith!” answered Aramis, “as you see, from Heaven.”
“From Heaven,” replied d’Artagnan, shaking his head; “you have no more the appearance of coming from thence than you have of going there.”
“My friend,” said Aramis, with a look of imbecility on his face which d’Artagnan had never observed whilst he was in the Musketeers, “if I did not come from Heaven, at least I was leaving Paradise, which is almost the same.”
“Here, then, is a puzzle for the learned,” observed d’Artagnan, “until now they have never been able to agree as to the situation of Paradise; some place it on Mount Ararat, others between the rivers Tigris and Euphrates; it seems that they have been looking very far away for it, while it was actually very near. Paradise is at Noisy le Sec, upon the site of the archbishop’s château. People do not go out from it by the door, but by the window; one doesn’t descend here by the marble steps of a peristyle, but by the branches of a lime-tree; and the angel with a flaming sword who guards this elysium seems to have changed his celestial name of Gabriel into that of the more terrestrial one of the Prince de Marsillac.”
Aramis burst into a fit of laughter.
“You were always a merry companion, my dear d’Artagnan,” he said, “and your witty Gascon fancy has not deserted you. Yes, there is something in what you say; nevertheless, do not believe that it is Madame de Longueville with whom I am in love.”
“A plague on’t! I shall not do so. After having been so long in love with Madame de Chevreuse, you would hardly lay your heart at the feet of her mortal enemy!”
“Yes,” replied Aramis, with an absent air; “yes, that poor duchess! I once loved her much, and to do her justice, she was very useful to us. Eventually she was obliged to leave France. He was a relentless enemy, that damned cardinal,” continued Aramis, glancing at the portrait of the old minister. “He had even given orders to arrest her and would have cut off her head had she not escaped with her waiting-maid—poor Kitty! I have heard that she met with a strange adventure in I don’t know what village, with I don’t know what curé, of whom she asked hospitality and who, having but one chamber, and taking her for a cavalier, offered to share it with her. For she had a wonderful way of dressing as a man, that dear Marie; I know only one other woman who can do it as well. So they made this song about her: ‘Laboissiere, dis moi.’ You know it, don’t you?”
“No, sing it, please.”
Aramis immediately complied, and sang the song in a very lively manner.
“Bravo!” cried d’Artagnan, “you sing charmingly, dear Aramis. I do not perceive that singing masses has spoiled your voice.”
“My dear d’Artagnan,” replied Aramis, “you understand, when I was a musketeer I mounted guard as seldom as I could; now when I am an abbé I say as few masses as I can. But to return to our duchess.”
“Which—the Duchess de Chevreuse or the Duchess de Longueville?”
“Have I not already told you that there is nothing between me and the Duchess de Longueville? Little flirtations, perhaps, and that’s all. No, I spoke of the Duchess de Chevreuse; did you see her after her return from Brussels, after the king’s death?”
“Yes, she is still beautiful.”
“Yes,” said Aramis, “I saw her also at that time. I gave her good advice, by which she did not profit. I ventured to tell her that Mazarin was the lover of Anne of Austria. She wouldn’t believe me, saying that she knew Anne of Austria, who was too proud to love such a worthless coxcomb. After that she plunged into the cabal headed by the Duke of Beaufort; and the ‘coxcomb’ arrested de Beaufort and banished Madame de Chevreuse.”
“You know,” resumed d’Artagnan, “that she has had leave to return to France?”
“Yes she is come back and is going to commit some fresh folly or another.”
“Oh, but this time perhaps she will follow your advice.”
“Oh, this time,” returned Aramis, “I haven’t seen her; she is much changed.”
“In that respect unlike you, my dear Aramis, for you are still the same; you have still your beautiful dark hair, still your elegant figure, still your feminine hands, which are admirably suited to a prelate.”
“Yes,” replied Aramis, “I am extremely careful of my appearance. Do you know that I am growing old? I am nearly thirty-seven.”
“Mind, Aramis”—d’Artagnan smiled as he spoke—“since we are together again, let us agree on one point: what age shall we be in future?”
“How?”
“Formerly I was your junior by two or three years, and if I am not mistaken I am turned forty years old.”
“Indeed! Then ’tis I who am mistaken, for you have always been a good chronologist. By your reckoning I must be forty-three at least. The devil I am! Don’t let it out at the Hôtel Rambouillet; it would ruin me,” replied the abbé.
“Don’t
