Aramis was generally temperate; but on this occasion, while
taking every care of his constitution, he did ample justice
to Baisemeaux’s breakfast, which, in all respects, was most
excellent. The latter, on his side, was animated with the
wildest gayety; the sight of the five thousand pistoles,
which he glanced at from time to time, seemed to open his
heart. Every now and then he looked at Aramis with an
expression of the deepest gratitude; while the latter,
leaning back in his chair, took a few sips of wine from his
glass, with the air of a connoisseur. “Let me never hear any
ill words against the fare of the Bastile,” said he, half
closing his eyes; “happy are the prisoners who can get only
half a bottle of such Burgundy every day.”
“All those at fifteen francs drink it,” said Baisemeaux. “It
is very old Volnay.”
“Does that poor student, Seldon, drink such good wine?”
“Oh, no!”
“I thought I heard you say he was boarded at fifteen
francs.”
“He! no, indeed; a man who makes districts — distichs, I
mean — at fifteen francs! No, no! it is his neighbor who is
at fifteen francs.”
“Which neighbor?”
“The other, second Bertaudiere.”
“Excuse me, my dear governor; but you speak a language which
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requires quite an apprenticeship to understand.”
“Very true,” said the governor. “Allow me to explain: second
Bertaudiere is the person who occupies the second floor of
the tower of the Bertaudiere.”
“So that Bertaudiere is the name of one of the towers of the
Bastile? The fact is, I think I recollect hearing that each
tower has a name of its own. Whereabouts is the one you are
speaking of?”
“Look,” said Baisemeaux, going to the window. “It is that
tower to the left —the second one.”
“Is the prisoner at fifteen francs there?”
“Yes.”
“Since when?”
“Seven or eight years, nearly.”
“What do you mean by nearly? Do you not know the dates more
precisely?”
“It was not in my time, M. d’Herblay.”
“But I should have thought that Louviere or Tremblay would
have told you.”
“The secrets of the Bastile are never handed over with the
keys of the governorship.”
“Indeed! Then the cause of his imprisonment is a mystery —
a state secret.”
“Oh no! I do not suppose it is a state secret, but a secret
— like everything else that happens at the Bastile.”
“But,” said Aramis, “why do you speak more freely of Seldon
than of second Bertaudiere?”
“Because, in my opinion, the crime of the man who writes a
distich is not so great as that of the man who resembles
—- ”
“Yes, yes, I understand you. Still, do not the turnkeys talk
with your prisoners?”
“Of course.”
“The prisoners, I suppose, tell them they are not guilty?”
“They are always telling them that; it is a matter of
course; the same song over and over again.”
“But does not the resemblance you were speaking about just
now strike the turnkeys?”
“My dear M. d’Herblay, it is only for men attached to the
court, as you are, to take trouble about such matters.”
“You’re right, you’re right, my dear M. Baisemeaux. Let me
give you another taste of this Volnay.”
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“Not a taste merely, a full glass; fill yours too.”
“Nay, nay! You are a musketeer still, to the very tips of
your fingers, while I have become a bishop. A taste for me;
a glass for yourself.”
“As you please.” And Aramis and the governor nodded to each
other, as they drank their wine. “But,” said Aramis, looking
with fixed attention at the ruby-colored wine he had raised
to the level of his eyes, as if he wished to enjoy it with
all his senses at the same moment, “but what you might call
a resemblance, another would not, perhaps, take any notice
of.”
“Most certainly he would, though, if it were any one who
knew the person he resembles.”
“I really think, dear M. Baisemeaux, that it can be nothing
more than a resemblance of your own creation.”
“Upon my honor, it is not so.”