instead of disguising his thought, always completed it.
“It is very polite of him,” said he, “to have given his
benediction to us alone. Decidedly, he is a holy man, and a
brave man.” Less convinced than Porthos, D’Artagnan made no
reply.
“Observe, my friend,” continued Porthos, “he has seen us;
and, instead of continuing to walk on at the simple pace of
the procession, as he did just now, — see, what a hurry he
is in; do you see how the cortege is increasing its speed?
He is eager to join us and embrace us, is that dear Aramis.”
“That is true,” replied D’Artagnan, aloud. — Then to
himself: — “It is equally true he has seen me, the fox, and
will have time to prepare himself to receive me.”
But the procession had passed; the road was free. D’Artagnan
and Porthos walked straight up to the episcopal palace,
which was surrounded by a numerous crowd anxious to see the
prelate return. D’Artagnan remarked that this crowd was
composed principally of citizens and military men. He
recognized in the nature of these partisans the address of
his friend. Aramis was not the man to seek for a useless
popularity. He cared very little for being beloved by people
who could be of no service to him. Women, children, and old
men, that is to say, the cortege of ordinary pastors, was
not the cortege for him.
Ten minutes after the two friends had passed the threshold
of the palace, Aramis returned like a triumphant conqueror;
the soldiers presented arms to him as to a superior; the
citizens bowed to him as to a friend and a patron, rather
than as a head of the Church. There was something in Aramis
resembling those Roman senators who had their doors always
surrounded by clients. At the foot of the prison, he had a
conference of half a minute with a Jesuit, who, in order to
speak to him more secretly, passed his head under the dais.
He then re-entered his palace; the doors closed slowly, and
the crowd melted away, whilst chants and prayers were still
resounding abroad. It was a magnificent day. Earthly
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perfumes were mingled with the perfumes of the air and the
sea. The city breathed happiness, joy, and strength.
D’Artagnan felt something like the presence of an invisible
hand which had, all-powerfully, created this strength, this
joy, this happiness, and spread everywhere these perfumes.
“Oh! oh!” said he, “Porthos has got fat; but Aramis is grown
taller.”
CHAPTER 72
The Grandeur of the Bishop of Vannes
Porthos and D’Artagnan had entered the bishop’s residence by
a private door, as his personal friends. Of course, Porthos
served D’Artagnan as guide. The worthy baron comported
himself everywhere rather as if he were at home.
Nevertheless, whether it was a tacit acknowledgment of the
sanctity of the personage of Aramis and his character, or
the habit of respecting him who imposed upon him morally, a
worthy habit which had always made Porthos a model soldier
and an excellent companion; for all these reasons, say we,
Porthos preserved in the palace of His Greatness the Bishop
of Vannes a sort of reserve which D’Artagnan remarked at
once, in the attitude he took with respect to the valets and
officers. And yet this reserve did not go so far as to
prevent his asking questions. Porthos questioned. They
learned that His Greatness had just returned to his
apartment and was preparing to appear in familiar intimacy,
less majestic than he had appeared with his flock. After a
quarter of an hour, which D’Artagnan and Porthos passed in
looking mutually at each other with the white of their eyes,
and turning their thumbs in all the different evolutions
which go from north to south, a door of the chamber opened
and His Greatness appeared, dressed in the undress,
complete, of a prelate. Aramis carried his head high, like a
man accustomed to command: his violet robe was tucked up on
one side, and his white hand was on his hip. He had retained
the fine mustache, and the lengthened royale of the time of
Louis XIII. He exhaled, on entering, that delicate perfume