second like snails; and when a man is able to put a good
horse between his knees, that horse is better than rowers or
any other means.”
“You are right; you above all, Porthos, who always look
magnificent on horseback.”
“Rather heavy, my friend; I was weighed the other day.”
“And what do you weigh?”
“Three hundred-weight!” said Porthos, proudly.
“Bravo!”
“So that you must perceive, I am forced to choose horses
whose loins are straight and wide, otherwise I break them
down in two hours.”
“Yes, giant’s horses you must have, must you not?”
“You are very polite, my friend,” replied the engineer, with
affectionate majesty.
“As a case in point,” replied D’Artagnan, “your horse seems
to sweat already.”
“Dame! It is hot! Ah, ah! do you see Vannes now?”
“Yes, perfectly. It is a handsome city, apparently.”
“Charming, according to Aramis, at least, but I think it
black; but black seems to be considered handsome by artists:
I am sorry for it.”
“Why so, Porthos?”
“Because I have lately had my chateau of Pierrefonds which
was gray with age, plastered white.”
“Humph!” said D’Artagnan, “and white is more cheerful.”
“Yes, but it is less august, as Aramis tells me. Fortunately
there are dealers in black as well as white. I will have
Pierrefonds replastered in black; that’s all there is about
it. If gray is handsome, you understand, my friend, black
must be superb.”
“Dame!” said D’Artagnan, “that appears logical.”
“Were you never at Vannes, D’Artagnan?”
“Never.”
“Then you know nothing of the city?”
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“Nothing.”
“Well, look!” said Porthos, raising himself in his stirrups,
which made the fore-quarters of his horse bend sadly — “do
you see that corner, in the sun, yonder?”
“Yes, I see it plainly.”
“Well, that is the cathedral.”
“Which is called?”
“Saint-Pierre. Now look again — in the faubourg on the
left, do you see another cross?”
“Perfectly well.”
“That is Saint-Paterne, the parish preferred by Aramis.”
“Indeed!”
“Without doubt. Saint-Paterne, you see, passes for having
been the first bishop of Vannes. It is true that Aramis
pretends he was not. But he is so learned that that may be
only a paro — a para —”
“A paradox,” said D’Artagnan.
“Precisely; thank you! my tongue trips, I am so hot.”
“My friend,” said D’Artagnan, “continue your interesting
description, I beg. What is that large white building with
many windows?”
“Oh! that is the college of the Jesuits. Pardieu! you have
an apt hand. Do you see, close to the college, a large house
with steeples, turrets, built in a handsome Gothic style, as
that fool, M. Getard, says?”
“Yes, that is plainly to be seen. Well?”
“Well, that is where Aramis resides.”
“What! does he not reside at the episcopal palace?”
“No, that is in ruins. The palace likewise is in the city,
and Aramis prefers the faubourgs. That is why, as I told
you, he is partial to Saint-Paterne; Saint-Paterne is in the
faubourg. Besides, there are in this faubourg a mall, a
tennis-court, and a house of Dominicans. Look, that where
the handsome steeple rises to the heavens.”
“Well?”
“Next, you see the faubourg is like a separate city, it has
its walls, its towers, its ditches; the quay is upon it
likewise, and the boats land at the quay. If our little
corsair did not draw eight feet of water, we could have come
full sail up to Aramis’s windows.”
“Porthos, Porthos,” cried D’Artagnan, “you are a well of
knowledge, a spring of ingenious and profound reflections.
Porthos, you no longer surprise me, you confound me.”
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“Here we are,” said Porthos, turning the conversation with
his usual modesty.
“And high time we were,” thought D’Artagnan, “for Aramis’s
horse is melting away like a steed of ice.”
They entered almost at the same instant the faubourg; but
scarcely had they gone a hundred paces when they were
surprised to find the streets strewed with leaves and
flowers. Against the old walls of Vannes hung the oldest and
the strangest tapestries of France. From over balconies fell
long white sheets stuck all over with bouquets. The streets