Ten Years Later by Dumas, Alexandre. Part one

comte will return, at least?”

“As little, monsieur, as the place of his destination.”

“Come, Blaisois, come, search.”

“Monsieur doubts my sincerity? Ah, monsieur, that grieves me

much.”

“The devil take his gilded tongue!” grumbled D’Artagnan. “A

clown with a word would be worth a dozen of him. Adieu!”

“Monsieur, I have the honor to present you my respects.”

“Cuistre!” said D’Artagnan to himself, “the fellow is

unbearable.” He gave another look up to the house, turned

his horse’s head, and set off like a man who has nothing

either annoying or embarrassing in his mind. When he was at

the end of the wall, and out of sight, — “Well, now, I

wonder,” said he, breathing quickly, “whether Athos was at

home. No; all those idlers, standing with their arms

crossed, would have been at work if the eye of the master

was near. Athos gone a journey? — that is incomprehensible.

Bah! it is all devilish mysterious! And then — no — he is

not the man I want. I want one of a cunning, patient mind.

My business is at Melun, in a certain presbytery I am

acquainted with. Forty-five leagues — four days and a half!

Well, it is fine weather, and I am free. Never mind the

distance!”

And he put his horse into a trot, directing his course

towards Paris. On the fourth day he alighted at Melun as he

had intended.

Page 104

Dumas, Alexandre – Ten Years Later

D’Artagnan was never in the habit of asking any one on the

road for any common information. For these sorts of details,

unless in very serious circumstances, he confided in his

perspicacity, which was so seldom at fault, in his

experience of thirty years, and in a great habit of reading

the physiognomies of houses, as well as those of men. At

Melun, D’Artagnan immediately found the presbytery — a

charming house, plastered over red brick, with vines

climbing along the gutters, and a cross, in carved stone,

surmounting the ridge of the roof. From the ground-floor of

this house came a noise, or rather a confusion of voices,

like the chirping of young birds when the brood is just

hatched under the down. One of these voices was spelling the

alphabet distinctly. A voice, thick, yet pleasant, at the

same time scolded the talkers and corrected the faults of

the reader. D’Artagnan recognized that voice, and as the

window of the ground-floor was open, he leant down from his

horse under the branches and red fibers of the vine and

cried “Bazin, my dear Bazin! good-day to you.”

A short, fat man, with a flat face, a craniun ornamented

with a crown of gray hairs, cut short, in imitation of a

tonsure, and covered with an old black velvet cap, arose as

soon as he heard D’Artagnan — we ought not to say arose,

but bounded up. In fact, Bazin bounded up, carrying with him

his little low chair, which the children tried to take away,

with battles more fierce than those of the Greeks

endeavoring to recover the body of Patroclus from the hands

of the Trojans. Bazin did more than bound; he let fall both

his alphabet and his ferule. “You!” said he, “you, Monsieur

d’Artagnan?”

“Yes, myself! Where is Aramis — no, M. le Chevalier

d’Herblay — no, I am still mistaken — Monsieur le

Vicaire-General?”

“Ah, monsieur,” said Bazin, with dignity, “monseigneur is at

his diocese.”

“What did you say?” said D’Artagnan. Bazin repeated the

sentence.

“Ah, ah! but has Aramis a diocese?”

“Yes, monsieur. Why not?”

“Is he a bishop, then?”

“Why, where can you come from,” said Bazin, rather

irreverently, “that you don’t know that?”

“My dear Bazin, we pagans, we men of the sword, know very

well when a man is made a colonel, or maitre-de-camp, or

marshal of France; but if he be made a bishop, archbishop,

or pope — devil take me if the news reaches us before the

three quarters of the earth have had the advantage of it!”

“Hush! hush!” said Bazin, opening his eyes: “do not spoil

these poor children, in whom I am endeavoring to inculcate

such good principles.” In fact, the children had surrounded

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