“My dear Percerin,” said d’Artagnan, “you will make a dress for the baron? ‘Tis I who ask you.”
“To you I will not say nay, Captain.”
“But that is not all; you will make it for him at once.”
“‘Tis impossible before eight days.”
“That, then, is as much as to refuse, because the dress is wanted for the fete at Vaux.”
“I repeat that it is impossible,” returned the obstinate old man.
“By no means, dear M. Percerin, above all if I ask you,” said a mild voice at the door,- a silvery voice which made d’Artagnan prick up his ears. It was the voice of Aramis.
“M. d’Herblay!” cried the tailor.
“Aramis!” murmured d’Artagnan.
“Ah, our bishop!” said Porthos.
“Good-morning, d’Artagnan; good-morning, Porthos; good-morning, my dear friends'” said Aramis. “Come, come, M. Percerin, make the baron’s dress, and I will answer for it you will gratify M. Fouquet”; and he accompanied the words with a sign which seemed to say, “Agree, and dismiss them.”
It appeared that Aramis had over M. Percerin an influence superior even to d’Artagnan’s; for the tailor bowed in assent, and turning round upon Porthos, “Go and get measured on the other side,” said he, rudely.
Porthos colored in a formidable manner. D’Artagnan saw the storm coming, and addressing Moliere said to him in an undertone, “You see before you, my dear Monsieur, a man who considers himself disgraced if you measure the flesh and bones that Heaven has given him; study this type for me, Aristophanes, and profit by it.”
Moliere had no need of encouragement, and his gaze dwelt upon the baron Porthos. “Monsieur,” he said, “if you will come with me, I will make them take your measure without the measurer touching you.”
“Oh!” said Porthos, “how do you make that out, my friend?”
“I say that they shall apply neither line nor rule to the seams of your dress. It is a new method we have invented for measuring people of quality, who are too sensitive to allow low-born fellows to touch them. We know some susceptible persons who will not put up with being measured,- a process which, as I think, wounds the natural dignity of man; and if perchance Monsieur should be one of these-”
“Corboeuf! I believe I am one of them.”
“Well, that is a capital coincidence, and you will have the benefit of our invention.”
“But how in the devil can it be done?” asked Porthos, delighted.
“Monsieur,” said Moliere, bowing, “if you will deign to follow me, you will see.”
Aramis observed this scene with all his eyes. Perhaps he fancied from d’Artagnan’s liveliness that he would leave with Porthos, so as not to lose the conclusion of a scene so well begun. But clear-sighted as he was, Aramis deceived himself. Porthos and Moliere left together. D’Artagnan remained with Percerin. Why? From curiosity, doubtless; probably to enjoy a little longer the society of his good friend Aramis. As Moliere and Porthos disappeared, d’Artagnan drew near the Bishop of Vannes,- a proceeding which appeared particularly to disconcert him. “A dress for you also, is it not, my friend?”
Aramis smiled. “No,” said he.
“You will go to Vaux, however?”
“I shall go, but without a new dress. You forget, dear d’Artagnan, that a poor Bishop of Vannes is not rich enough to have new for every fete.”
“Bah!” said the musketeer, laughing; “and do we write no more poems now, either?”
“Oh, d’Artagnan,” exclaimed Aramis, “I have long given over all these follies!”
“True,” repeated d’Artagnan, only half convinced.
As for Percerin, he had relapsed into his contemplation of the brocades.
“Don’t you perceive,” said Aramis, smiling, “that we are greatly boring this good gentleman, my dear d’Artagnan?”
“Ah! ah!” murmured the musketeer, aside; “that is, I am boring you, my friend.” Then aloud, “Well, then, let us leave. I have no further business here; and if you are as disengaged as I, Aramis-”
“No; not I- I wished-”
“Ah! you had something private to say to M. Percerin? Why did you not tell me so at once?”
“Something private, certainly,” repeated Aramis, “but not from you, d’Artagnan. I hope you will believe that I can never have anything so private to say that a friend like you may not hear it.”