Ten Years Later by Dumas, Alexandre. Part two

were deserted; it was plain the entire population was

assembled on one point. The blinds were closed, and the

breeze penetrated into the houses under the hangings, which

cast long, black shades between their places of issue and

the walls. Suddenly, at the turning of a street, chants

struck the ears of the newly arrived travelers. A crowd in

holiday garb appeared through the vapors of incense which

mounted to the heavens in blue fleeces, and clouds of

rose-leaves fluttered as high as the first stories. Above

all heads were to be seen the cross and banners, the sacred

symbols of religion. Then, beneath these crosses and

banners, as if protected by them, walked a whole world of

young girls clothed in white, crowned with corn-flowers. At

the two sides of the street, inclosing the cortege, marched

the guards of the garrison, carrying bouquets in the barrels

of their muskets and on the points of their lances. This was

the procession.

Whilst D’Artagnan and Porthos were looking on with critical

glances, which disguised an extreme impatience to get

forward, a magnificent dais approached preceded by a hundred

Jesuits and a hundred Dominicans, and escorted by two

archdeacons, a treasurer, a penitent and twelve canons. A

singer with a thundering voice — a man certainly picked out

from all the voices of France, as was the drum-major of the

imperial guard from all the giants of the empire — escorted

by four other chanters, who appeared to be there only to

serve him as an accompaniment, made the air resound, and the

windows of the houses vibrate. Under the dais appeared a

pale and noble countenance with black eyes, black hair

streaked with threads of white, a delicate, compressed

mouth, a prominent and angular chin. His head, full of

graceful majesty, was covered with the episcopal mitre, a

headdress which gave it, in addition to the character of

sovereignty, that of asceticism and evangelic meditation.

“Aramis!” cried the musketeer, involuntarily, as this lofty

countenance passed before him. The prelate started at the

sound of the voice. He raised his large black eyes, with

their long lashes, and turned them without hesitation

towards the spot whence the exclamation proceeded. At a

glance, he saw Porthos and D’Artagnan close to him. On his

part, D’Artagnan, thanks to the keenness of his sight, had

seen all, seized all. The full portrait of the prelate had

entered his memory, never to leave it. One thing had

particularly struck D’Artagnan. On perceiving him, Aramis

had colored, then he had concentrated under his eyelids the

fire of the look of the master, and the indefinable

affection of the friend. It was evident that Aramis had

asked himself this question: — “Why is D’Artagnan with

Porthos, and what does he want at Vannes?” Aramis

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Dumas, Alexandre – Ten Years Later

comprehended all that was passing in the mind of D’Artagnan,

on turning his look upon him again, and seeing that he had

not lowered his eyes. He knew the acuteness and intelligence

of his friend, he feared to let him divine the secret of his

blush and his astonishment. He was still the same Aramis,

always having a secret to conceal. Therefore, to put an end

to his look of an inquisitor which it was necessary to get

rid of at all events, as, at any price, a general

extinguishes a battery which annoys him, Aramis stretched

forth his beautiful white hand, upon which sparkled the

amethyst of the pastoral ring; he cut the air with sign of

the cross, and poured out his benediction upon his two

friends. Perhaps thoughtful and absent, D’Artagnan, impious

in spite of himself, might not have bent beneath this holy

benediction; but Porthos saw his distraction, and laying his

friendly hand upon the back of his companion, he crushed him

down towards the earth. D’Artagnan was forced to give way;

indeed, he was little short of being flat on the ground. In

the meantime Aramis had passed. D’Artagnan, like Antaeus,

had only touched the ground, and he turned towards Porthos,

almost angry. But there was no mistaking the intention of

the brave Hercules; it was a feeling of religious propriety

that had influenced him. Besides, speech with Porthos,

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