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