Longueville?”
“Have I not already told you that there is nothing between
me and the Duchess de Longueville? Little flirtations,
perhaps, and that’s all. No, I spoke of the Duchess de
Chevreuse; did you see her after her return from Brussels,
after the king’s death?”
“Yes, she is still beautiful.”
“Yes,” said Aramis, “I saw her also at that time. I gave her
good advice, by which she did not profit. I ventured to tell
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her that Mazarin was the lover of Anne of Austria. She
wouldn’t believe me, saying that she knew Anne of Austria,
who was too proud to love such a worthless coxcomb. After
that she plunged into the cabal headed by the Duke of
Beaufort; and the `coxcomb’ arrested De Beaufort and
banished Madame de Chevreuse.”
“You know,” resumed D’Artagnan, “that she has had leave to
return to France?”
“Yes she is come back and is going to commit some fresh
folly or another.”
“Oh, but this time perhaps she will follow your advice.”
“Oh, this time,” returned Aramis, “I haven’t seen her; she
is much changed.”
“In that respect unlike you, my dear Aramis, for you are
still the same; you have still your beautiful dark hair,
still your elegant figure, still your feminine hands, which
are admirably suited to a prelate.”
“Yes,” replied Aramis, “I am extremely careful of my
appearance. Do you know that I am growing old? I am nearly
thirty-seven.”
“Mind, Aramis” — D’Artagnan smiled as he spoke — “since we
are together again, let us agree on one point: what age
shall we be in future?”
“How?”
“Formerly I was your junior by two or three years, and if I
am not mistaken I am turned forty years old.”
“Indeed! Then ’tis I who am mistaken, for you have always
been a good chronologist. By your reckoning I must be
forty-three at least. The devil I am! Don’t let it out at
the Hotel Rambouillet; it would ruin me,” replied the abbe.
“Don’t be afraid,” said D’Artagnan. “I never go there.”
“Why, what in the world,” cried Aramis, “is that animal
Bazin doing? Bazin! Hurry up there, you rascal; we are mad
with hunger and thirst!”
Bazin entered at that moment carrying a bottle in each hand.
“At last,” said Aramis, “we are ready, are we?
“Yes, monsieur, quite ready,” said Bazin; “but it took me
some time to bring up all the —- ”
“Because you always think you have on your shoulders your
beadle’s robe, and spend all your time reading your
breviary. But I give you warning that if in polishing your
chapel utensils you forget how to brighten up my sword, I
will make a great fire of your blessed images and will see
that you are roasted on it.”
Bazin, scandalized, made a sign of the cross with the bottle
in his hand. D’Artagnan, more surprised than ever at the
tone and manners of the Abbe d’Herblay, which contrasted so
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strongly with those of the Musketeer Aramis, remained
staring with wide-open eyes at the face of his friend.
Bazin quickly covered the table with a damask cloth and
arranged upon it so many things, gilded, perfumed,
appetizing, that D’Artagnan was quite overcome.
“But you expected some one then?” asked the officer.
“Oh,” said Aramis, “I always try to be prepared; and then I
knew you were seeking me.”
“From whom?”
“From Master Bazin, to be sure; he took you for the devil,
my dear fellow, and hastened to warn me of the danger that
threatened my soul if I should meet again a companion so
wicked as an officer of musketeers.”
“Oh, monsieur!” said Bazin, clasping his hands
supplicatingly.
“Come, no hypocrisy! you know that I don’t like it. You will
do much better to open the window and let down some bread, a
chicken and a bottle of wine to your friend Planchet, who
has been this last hour killing himself clapping his hands.”
Planchet, in fact, had bedded and fed his horses, and then
coming back under the window had repeated two or three times
the signal agreed upon.