which, among elegant men and women of high fashion, never
changes, and appears to be incorporated in the person, of
whom it has become the natural emanation. In this case only,
the perfume had retained something of the religious
sublimity of incense. It no longer intoxicated, it
penetrated; it no longer inspired desire, it inspired
respect. Aramis, on entering the chamber did not hesitate an
instant; and without pronouncing one word, which, whatever
it might be, would have been cold on such an occasion, he
went straight up to the musketeer, so well disguised under
the costume of M. Agnan, and pressed him in his arms with a
tenderness which the most distrustful could not have
suspected of coldness or affectation.
D’Artagnan, on his part, embraced him with equal ardor.
Porthos pressed the delicate hand of Aramis in his immense
hands, and D’Artagnan remarked that His Greatness gave him
his left hand, probably from habit, seeing that Porthos
already ten times had been near injuring his fingers covered
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with rings, by pounding his flesh in the vise of his fist.
Warned by the pain, Aramis was cautious, and only presented
flesh to be bruised, and not fingers to be crushed, against
gold or the angles of diamonds.
Between two embraces, Aramis looked D’Artagnan in the face,
offered him a chair, sitting down himself in the shade,
observing that the light fell full upon the face of his
interlocutor. This maneuver, familiar to diplomatists and
women, resembles much the advantage of the guard which,
according to their skill or habit, combatants endeavor to
take on the ground at a duel. D’Artagnan was not the dupe of
this maneuver, but he did not appear to perceive it. He felt
himself caught; but, precisely, because he was caught he
felt himself on the road to discovery, and it little
imported to him, old condottiere as he was, to be beaten in
appearance, provided he drew from his pretended defeat the
advantages of victory. Aramis began the conversation.
“Ah! dear friend! my good D’Artagnan,” said he, “what an
excellent chance!”
“It is a chance, my reverend companion,” said D’Artagnan,
“that I will call friendship. I seek you, as I always have
sought you, when I had any grand enterprise to propose to
you, or some hours of liberty to give you.”
“Ah! indeed,” said Aramis, without explosion, “you have been
seeking me?”
“Eh! yes, he has been seeking you, Aramis,” said Porthos,
“and the proof is that he has unharbored me at Belle-Isle.
That is amiable, is it not?”
“Ah! yes,” said Aramis, “at Belle-Isle! certainly!”
“Good!” said D’Artagnan; “there is my booby Porthos, without
thinking of it, has fired the first cannon of attack.”
“At Belle-Isle!” said Aramis, “in that hole, in that desert!
That is kind, indeed!”
“And it was I who told him you were at Vannes,” continued
Porthos, in the same tone.
D’Artagnan armed his mouth with a finesse almost ironical.
“Yes, I knew, but I was willing to see,” replied he.
“To see what?”
“If our old friendship still held out, if, on seeing each
other, our hearts, hardened as they are by age, would still
let the old cry of joy escape, which salutes the coming of a
friend.”
“Well, and you must have been satisfied,” said Aramis.
“So, so.”
“How is that?”
“Yes, Porthos said hush! and you —- ”
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“Well! and I?”
“And you gave me your benediction.”
“What would you have, my friend?” said Aramis, smiling;
“that is the most precious thing that a poor prelate, like
me, has to give.”
“Indeed, my dear friend!”
“Doubtless.”
“And yet they say at Paris that the bishopric of Vannes is
one of the best in France.”
“Ah! you are now speaking of temporal wealth,” said Aramis,
with a careless air.
“To be sure, I wish to speak of that; I hold by it, on my
part.”
“In that case, let me speak of it,” said Aramis, with a
smile.
“You own yourself to be one of the richest prelates in
France?”
“My friend, since you ask me to give you an account, I will