“Oh, let us hope,” said Aramis, “that with the help of God
and of Bazin we shall find something better than that in the
larder of the worthy Jesuit fathers. Bazin, my friend, come
here.”
The door opened and Bazin entered; on perceiving the
musketeer he uttered an exclamation that was almost a cry of
despair.
“My dear Bazin,” said D’Artagnan, “I am delighted to see
with what wonderful composure you can tell a lie even in
church!”
“Sir,” replied Bazin, “I have been taught by the good Jesuit
fathers that it is permitted to tell a falsehood when it is
told in a good cause.”
“So far well,” said Aramis; “we are dying of hunger. Serve
us up the best supper you can, and especially give us some
good wine.”
Bazin bowed low, sighed, and left the room.
“Now we are alone, dear Aramis,” said D’Artagnan, “tell me
how the devil you managed to alight upon the back of
Planchet’s horse.”
“I’faith!” answered Aramis, “as you see, from Heaven.”
“From Heaven,” replied D’Artagnan, shaking his head; “you
have no more the appearance of coming from thence than you
have of going there.”
“My friend,” said Aramis, with a look of imbecility on his
face which D’Artagnan had never observed whilst he was in
the musketeers, “if I did not come from Heaven, at least I
was leaving Paradise, which is almost the same.”
“Here, then, is a puzzle for the learned,” observed
D’Artagnan, “until now they have never been able to agree as
to the situation of Paradise; some place it on Mount Ararat,
others between the rivers Tigris and Euphrates; it seems
that they have been looking very far away for it, while it
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was actually very near. Paradise is at Noisy le Sec, upon
the site of the archbishop’s chateau. People do not go out
from it by the door, but by the window; one doesn’t descend
here by the marble steps of a peristyle, but by the branches
of a lime-tree; and the angel with a flaming sword who
guards this elysium seems to have changed his celestial name
of Gabriel into that of the more terrestrial one of the
Prince de Marsillac.”
Aramis burst into a fit of laughter.
“You were always a merry companion, my dear D’Artagnan,” he
said, “and your witty Gascon fancy has not deserted you.
Yes, there is something in what you say; nevertheless, do
not believe that it is Madame de Longueville with whom I am
in love.”
“A plague on’t! I shall not do so. After having been so long
in love with Madame de Chevreuse, you would hardly lay your
heart at the feet of her mortal enemy!”
“Yes,” replied Aramis, with an absent air; “yes, that poor
duchess! I once loved her much, and to do her justice, she
was very useful to us. Eventually she was obliged to leave
France. He was a relentless enemy, that damned cardinal,”
continued Aramis, glancing at the portrait of the old
minister. “He had even given orders to arrest her and would
have cut off her head had she not escaped with her
waiting-maid — poor Kitty! I have heard that she met with a
strange adventure in I don’t know what village, with I don’t
know what cure, of whom she asked hospitality and who,
having but one chamber, and taking her for a cavalier,
offered to share it with her. For she had a wonderful way of
dressing as a man, that dear Marie; I know only one other
woman who can do it as well. So they made this song about
her: `Laboissiere, dis moi.’ You know it, don’t you?”
“No, sing it, please.”
Aramis immediately complied, and sang the song in a very
lively manner.
“Bravo!” cried D’Artagnan, “you sing charmingly, dear
Aramis. I do not perceive that singing masses has spoiled
your voice.”
“My dear D’Artagnan,” replied Aramis, “you understand, when
I was a musketeer I mounted guard as seldom as I could; now
when I am an abbe I say as few masses as I can. But to
return to our duchess.”
“Which — the Duchess de Chevreuse or the Duchess de