minister?”
“That is a strange question,” said Aramis.
“He is and he is not,” replied Athos; “that is to say, he is
dismissed by one-half of France, but by intrigues and
promises he makes the other half sustain him; you will
perceive that this may last a long time.”
“However, sir,” said the stranger, “he has neither fled nor
is in prison?”
“No, sir, not at this moment at least.”
“Sirs, accept my thanks for your politeness,” said the young
man, retreating.
“What do you think of that interrogator?” asked Aramis.
“I think he is either a dull provincial person or a spy in
search of information.”
“And you replied to him with that notion?”
“Nothing warranted me to answer him otherwise; he was polite
to me and I was so to him.”
“But if he be a spy —- ”
“What do you think a spy would be about here? We are not
living in the time of Cardinal Richelieu, who would have
closed the ports on bare suspicion.”
“It matters not; you were wrong to reply to him as you did,”
continued Aramis, following with his eyes the young man, now
vanishing behind the cliffs.
“And you,” said Athos, “you forget that you committed a very
different kind of imprudence in pronouncing Lord de Winter’s
name. Did you not see that at that name the young man
stopped?”
“More reason, then, when he spoke to you, for sending him
about his business.”
“A quarrel?” asked Athos.
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“And since when have you become afraid of a quarrel?”
“I am always afraid of a quarrel when I am expected at any
place and when such a quarrel might possibly prevent my
reaching it. Besides, let me own something to you. I am
anxious to see that young man nearer.”
“And wherefore?”
“Aramis, you will certainly laugh at me, you will say that I
am always repeating the same thing, you will call me the
most timorous of visionaries; but to whom do you see a
resemblance in that young man?”
“In beauty or on the contrary?” asked Aramis, laughing.
“In ugliness, in so far as a man can resemble a woman.”
“Ah! Egad!” cried Aramis, “you set me thinking. No, in truth
you are no visionary, my dear friend, and now I think of it
— you — yes, i’faith, you’re right — those delicate, yet
firm-set lips, those eyes which seem always at the command
of the intellect and never of the heart! Yes, it is one of
Milady’s bastards!”
“You laugh Aramis.”
“From habit, that is all. I swear to you, I like no better
than yourself to meet that viper in my path.”
“Ah! here is De Winter coming,” said Athos.
“Good! one thing now is only awanting and that is, that our
grooms should not keep us waiting.”
“No,” said Athos. “I see them about twenty paces behind my
lord. I recognize Grimaud by his long legs and his
determined slouch. Tony carries our muskets.”
“Then we set sail to-night?” asked Aramis, glancing toward
the west, where the sun had left a single golden cloud,
which, dipping into the ocean, appeared by degrees to be
extinguished.
“Probably,” said Athos.
“Diable!” resumed Aramis, “I have little fancy for the sea
by day, still less at night; the sounds of wind and wave,
the frightful movements of the vessel; I confess I prefer
the convent of Noisy.”
Athos smiled sadly, for it was evident that he was thinking
of other things as he listened to his friend and moved
toward De Winter.
“What ails our friend?” said Aramis, “he resembles one of
Dante’s damned, whose neck Apollyon has dislocated and who
are ever looking at their heels. What the devil makes him
glower thus behind him?”
When De Winter perceived them, in his turn he advanced
toward them with surprising rapidity.
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“What is the matter, my lord?” said Athos, “and what puts
you out of breath thus?”
“Nothing,” replied De Winter; “nothing; and yet in passing
the heights it seemed to me —- ” and he again turned
round.
Athos glanced at Aramis.