 Chapter sixty-eight of the D'Artagnan Romances, volume three, part one by Alexander Dumas, translated by William Robson. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. D'Artagnan continues his investigations. At daybreak D'Artagnan saddled Furey, who had fared sumptuously all night, devouring the remainder of the oaths in hay left by his companions. The musketeer sifted all he possibly could out of the host, whom he found cunning, mistrustful and devoted body and soul to Monsieur Fouquet. In order not to awaken the suspicions of this man, he carried on his fable of being a probable purchaser of some salt mines. To have embarked for Belial at Rochebinard would have been to expose himself still further to comments which had, perhaps, been already made and would be carried to the castle. Moreover, it was singular that this traveller and his lackey should have remained a mystery to D'Artagnan, in spite of all the questions addressed by him to the host, who appeared to know him perfectly well. The musketeer then made some inquiries concerning the salt mines and took the road to the marshes, leaving the sea on his right and penetrating into that vast and desolate plain which resembles a sea of mud, of which, here and there, a few crests of salt-silver the undulations. Furey walked admirably with his little nervous legs along the foot-wide causeways which separate the salt mines. D'Artagnan, aware of the consequences of a fall which would result in a cold bath, allowed him to go as he liked, contenting himself with looking at, on the horizon, three rocks that rose up like lance blades from the bosom of the plain, destitute of Virger. Perial, the borgs of Batz and LaCrosseek, exactly resembling each other, attracted and suspended his attention. If the traveller turned round, the better to make his observations he saw on the other side in the horizon of three other steeples, Garand, La Poulayan, and St Joachim, which, in their circumference, represented a set of skittles, of which he and Furey were but the wandering ball. Perial was the first little port on his right. He went tether with the names of the principal salters on his lips. At the moment he reached the little port of Perial, five large barges laden with stone were leaving it. It appeared strange to D'Artagnan that stones should be leaving a country where none are found. He had recourse to all the amenity of M. Anjan to learn from the people of the port the cause of this singular arrangement. An old fisherman replied to M. Anjan that the stones very certainly did not come from Perial or the marshes. Where do they come from then? asked the musketeer. M. Sir, they come from Nant and Penbuff. Where are they going then? M. Sir, to Belial. Aha! said D'Artagnan. In the same tone he had assumed to tell the printer that his character interested him. Are they building at Belial then? M. Why, yes, M. Sir. M. Fouquet has the walls of the castle repaired every year. Is it in ruins then? It is old. Thank you. The fact is, said D'Artagnan to himself, nothing is more natural. Every proprietor has a right to repair his own property. It would be like telling me I was fortifying the Amashtanotra Dam when I was simply obliged to make repairs. In good truth, I believe false reports have been made to his majesty, and he is very likely to be in the wrong. You must confess, continued he then, aloud and addressing the fisherman, for as part of a suspicious man was imposed upon him by the object even of his mission. You must confess, my dear M. Sir, that these stones travel in a very curious fashion. How so? said the fisherman. They come from Nant or Penbuff by the Loire, do they not? With the tide. That is convenient. I don't say it is not, but why do they not go straight from St. Nazare to Belial? Eh, because the shalons, the barges, are freshwater boats, and take the sea badly. replied the fisherman. That is not sufficient reason. Pardon me, M. Sir, one may see that you have never been a sailor, added the fisherman, not without a sort of disdain. Explain that to me, if you please, my good man. It appears to me that to come from Penbuff to Perial, and go from Perial to Belial, is as if we went from Roche Bernard to Nant, and from Nant to Perial. By water, that would be the nearest way. replied the fisherman imperturbably. But there is an elbow. The fisherman shook his head. The shortest road from one place to another is a straight line, continued D'Artagnan. You forget the tide, M. Sir. Well, take the tide. Take the tide. And the wind. Well, and the wind. Without doubt, the current of the Loire carries bikes almost as far as Quasique. If they want to lie by a little or to refresh the crew, they come to Perial along the coast. From Perial they find another inverse current, which carries them to the Ildumal, two leagues and a half. Granted. There the current of the Villain throws them upon another isle, the Isle of Houdique. I agree with that. Well, M. Sir, from that isle to Belial the way is quite straight. The sea broken both above and below passes like a canal, like a mirror between the two isles. The chalons glide along upon it like ducks upon the Loire. That's how it is. It does not signify, said the obstinate M. Sir. It is a long way round. Ah, yes, but M. Sir Fouquet will have it so. Replied as conclusive, the fisherman, taking off his woolen cap at the enunciation of that respected name. A look from D'Artagnan, a look as keen and piercing as a sword blade, found nothing in the heart of the old man but simple confidence. On his features nothing but satisfaction and indifference. He said, M. Sir Fouquet will have it so. As he would have said, God has willed it. D'Artagnan had already advanced too far in this direction. Besides, the chalons being gone there remained nothing at Piriol but a single bark, that of the old man, and it did not look fit for sea without great preparation. D'Artagnan therefore patted Furey, who as a new proof of his charming character, resumed his march with his feet in the salt mines and his nose to the dry wind, which bends the ferts and the broom of this country. They reached Corsique about five o'clock. If D'Artagnan had been a poet, it was a beautiful spectacle, the immense strand of a league or more, the sea covers at high tide, and which at the reflux appears gray and desolate, shrewd with polyp and seaweed, with pebbles sparse and white, like bones in some vast old cemetery. But the soldier, the politician, and the ambitious man had no longer the sweet consolation of looking toward heaven to read there a hope or a warning. A red sky signifies nothing to such people but wind and disturbance. White and fleecy clouds upon the azure only say that the sea will be smooth and peaceful. D'Artagnan found the sky blue, the breeze embalmed with saline perfumes, and he said, I will embark with the first tide, if it be but in a nutshell. At Corsique's, at Pyrrhyal, he had remarked enormous heaps of stone lying along the shore. These gigantic walls, diminished every tide by the barges for Belial, were, in the eyes of the musketeer, the consequence and the proof of what he had well defined at Pyrrhyal. Was it a wall that Monsieur Fouquet was constructing? Was it a fortification that he was erecting? To ascertain that, he must make fuller observations. D'Artagnan put Furey into a stable, supped, went to bed, and on the morrow took a walk upon the port, or rather upon the shingle. La Corsique has a port of fifty feet. It has a lookout which resembles an enormous brioche, a kind of cake, elevated on a dish. The flat strand is the dish. Hundreds of barrows full of earth, amalgamated with pebbles and rounded into cones, with sinuous passages between our look-outs and brioches at the same time. It is so now, and it was so two hundred years ago, only the brioche was not so large, and probably there were to be seen no trellises of lath around the brioche, which constitute an ornament, planted like a guard-foo along the passages that wind toward the little terrace. Upon the shingle lounge, three or four fishermen, talking about sardines and shrimps. D'Artagnan, with his eyes animated by rough gaiety, and a smile upon his lips, approached these fishermen. Any fish going on today? said he. Yes, Monsieur, replied one of them. We are only waiting for the tide. Where do you fish, my friends? Upon the coast, Monsieur. Which are the best coasts? Ah, that is all according. The tour of the isles, for example. Yes, but they are a long way off. Those isles, are they not? Not very. For leagues. For leagues? That is a voyage. The fishermen laughed in Monsieur Anyan's face. Hear me, then, said the latter with an air of simple stupidity. For leagues off you lose sight of land, do you not? Why, not always. Ha! It is a long way, too long, or else I would have asked you to take me aboard, and to show me what I have never seen. What is that? A live sea fish. Monsieur comes from the province, said a fisherman. Yes, I come from Paris. The Breton shrugged his shoulders, then. Have you ever seen Monsieur Fouquet in Paris? asked he. Often, replied D'Artagnan. Often, repeated the fisherman, closing their circle round the Parisian. Do you know him? A little. He is the intimate friend of my master. Ah! said the fisherman in astonishment. And, said D'Artagnan, I have seen all his chateau of Saint-Mond, of Vaux, and his hotel in Paris. Is that a fine place? Superb. It is not so fine a place as Belial, said the fisherman. Ha! ha! ha! cried D'Artagnan, breaking into a laugh so loud that he angered all his auditors. It is very plain that you have never seen Belial, said the most curious of the fisherman. Do you know that there are six leagues of it, and that there are such trees on it as cannot be seen? Trees on it as cannot be equaled, even at Nantes-sur-La-Fos. Trees in the sea? cried D'Artagnan. Well, I should like to see them. That can be easily done. We are fishing at the Île-de-Hodec. Come with us. From that place you will see, as a paradise, the black trees of Belial against the sky. You will see the white line of the castle, which cuts the horizon of the sea like a blade. Oh, said D'Artagnan. That must be very beautiful. But do you know there are a hundred belfries at Monsieur Fouquet's Chateau-au-Vaux? The Breton raised his head in profound admiration, but he was not convinced. A hundred belfries? Ha! that may be. But Belial is finer than that. Should you like to see Belial? Is that possible? asked D'Artagnan. Yes, with permission of the governor. But I do not know the governor. As you know, Monsieur Fouquet, you can tell him your name. Oh, my friends, I am not a gentleman. Everybody enters Belial. continued the fisherman in his strong, pure language. Provided he means no harm to Belial, or its master. A slight shudder crept over the body of a musketeer. That is true, thought he, then recovering himself. If I were sure, said he, not to be seasick. What? upon her? said the fisherman pointing with pride to his pretty round bottom bark. Well, you almost persuade me, cried Monsieur Anyan. I will go and see Belial, but they will not admit me. We shall enter safe enough. You? what for? Why, Dame, to sell fish to the corsairs. Huh, corsairs? What do you mean? Well, I mean that Monsieur Fouquet is having two corsairs built to chase the Dutch and the English, and we sell our fish to the crews of those little vessels. Come, come, said d'Artagnan to himself, better and better a printing press bastions and corsairs. Well, Monsieur Fouquet is not an enemy to be despised, as I presume to fancy. He is worth the trouble of travelling to see him nearer. We set out at half past five, said the fisherman gravely. I am quite ready, and I will not leave you now. So d'Artagnan saw the fisherman haul their barks to meet the tide with a windlass. The sea rose, Monsieur Anyan allowed himself to be hoisted on board, not without sporting a little fear and awkwardness to the amusement of the young beach urchins, who watched him with their large intelligent eyes. He laid himself down upon a folded sail, not interfering with anything whilst the bark prepared for sea, and with its large square sail it was fairly out within two hours. The fishermen who prosecuted their occupation as they proceeded did not perceive that their passenger had not become pale, neither groaned nor suffered, that in spite of that horrible tossing and rolling of the bark to which no hand imparted direction, the novice passenger had preserved his presence of mind and his appetite. They fished, and their fishing was sufficiently fortunate. Two lines baited with prawn, souls came, with numerous gambles to bite. Two nets had already been broken by the immense weight of conchers and haddocks. Three sea eels ploughed the hold with their slimy folds and their dying contortions. d'Artagnan brought them good luck, they told him so. The soldier found the occupation so pleasant that he put his hand to work, that is to say, to the lines, and uttered roars of joy and more dear enough to have astonished his musketeers themselves every time that a shock given to his line by the captured fish required the play of the muscles of his arm and the employment of his best dexterity. The party of pleasure had made him forget his diplomatic mission. He was struggling with a very large conjure and holding fast with one hand to one side of the vessel in order to seize with the other the gaping jowl of his antagonist when the master said to him, take care they don't see you from Belial. These words produced the same effect upon d'Artagnan as the hissing of the first bullet on a day of battle. He let go of both line and conjure, which dragging each other returned again to the water. d'Artagnan perceived within half a league at most the blue and marked profile of the rocks of Belial, dominated by the majestic whiteness of the castle, in the distance, the land with its forests and verdant plains, cattle on the grass. This was what first attracted the attention of the musketeer. The sun darted its rays of gold upon the sea, raising a shining mist round this enchanted aisle. Little could be seen of it, owing to this dazzling light, but the salient points, every shadow was strongly marked and cut with bands of darkness, the luminous fields and walls. Hey, hey, said d'Artagnan, at the aspect of those masses of black rocks. These are fortifications which do not stand in need of any engineer to render a landing difficult. How the devil can a landing be affected on that aisle which God has defended so completely? This way, replied the patron of the bark, changing the sail and impressing upon the rudder of twist, which turned the boat in the direction of a pretty little port, quite cockedish, round and newly battlemented. What the devil do I see yonder? said d'Artagnan. You see Lea Maria, replied the fisherman. Well, but there? That is Bragos. And further on? Sanger, and then the palace. What do, it is a world. Ah, there are some soldiers. There are seventeen hundred men in belly of the sir, replied the fisherman proudly. Do you know that the least garrison is of twenty companies of infantry? My dear. cried d'Artagnan, stamping with his foot. His majesty was right enough. They landed. End of chapter sixty-eight, recording by John Van Stan, Savannah, Georgia. Chapter sixty-nine of the d'Artagnan romances, volume three part one by Alexander Dumas, translated by William Robson. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, in which the reader, no doubt, will be as astonished as d'Artagnan was to meet an old acquaintance. There is always something in a landing, if it be only from the smallest sea-boat, a trouble and a confusion which do not leave the mind the liberty of which it stands in need, in order to study at the first glance the new locality presented to it, the movable bridges, the agitated sailors, the noise of the water on the pebbles, the cries and importunities of those who wait upon the shores, are multiplied details of that sensation which is summed up in one single result. Hesitation. It was not then till after standing several minutes on the shore that d'Artagnan saw upon the port, but more particularly in the interior of the aisle, an immense number of workmen in motion. At his feet d'Artagnan recognized the five chalons laden with rough stone he had seen leave the port of Piriol. The smaller stones were transported to the shore by means of a chain formed by twenty-five or thirty peasants. The large stones were loaded on trolleys which conveyed them in the same direction as the others, that is to say, toward the works of which d'Artagnan could as yet appreciate neither the strength nor the extent. Everywhere was to be seen an activity equal to that which Telemachus observed on his landing at Selentum. d'Artagnan felt a strong inclination to penetrate into the interior, but he could not, under the penalty of exciting mistrust, exhibit too much curiosity. He advanced then little by little, scarcely going beyond the line formed by the fisherman on the beach, observing everything, saying nothing and meeting all suspicion that might have been excited with a half-silly question, or a polite bow. And yet, whilst his companions carried on their trade-giving or selling their fish to the workmen or the inhabitants of the city, d'Artagnan had gained ground by degrees, and reassured by the little attention paid to him, he began to cast an intelligent and confident look upon the men and things that appeared before his eyes. And his very first glance fell on certain movements of earth about which the eye of a soldier could not be mistaken. At the two extremities of the port, in order that their fires should converge upon the great axis of the ellipsis formed by the basin, in the first place, two batteries had been raised, evidently destined to receive flank pieces, for d'Artagnan saw the workmen finishing the platform and making ready the demi-circumference in wood, upon which the wheels of the pieces might turn to embrace every direction over the epaulement. By the side of each of these batteries other workmen were strengthening gabions filled with earth, the lining of another battery. The latter had embrasures and the overseer of the works called successively men, who, with cords, tied the saucy sawns and cut the lozenges and right angles of turf's destined to retain the matting of the embrasures. By the activity displayed in these works already so far advanced, they might be considered as finished. They were not yet furnished with their cannons, but the platforms had their guides and their madriers all prepared. The earth beaten carefully was consolidated and supposing the artillery to be on the island, in less than two or three days, the port might be completely armed. That which astonished Artagnan when he turned his eyes from the coast batteries to the fortifications of the city, was to see that Belial was defended by an entirely new system, of which he had often heard the Comp de la Faire speak as a wonderful advance, but of which he had as yet never seen the application. These fortifications belonged neither to the Dutch method of moelle, nor to the French method of Cheveille Antoine de Vie, but to the system of Manisson Malais, a skillful engineer who about six or eight years previously had quitted the service of Portugal to enter that of France. The works had this peculiarity, that instead of rising above the earth as did the ancient ramparts destined to defend a city from escalades, may on the contrary sank into it and what created the height of the walls was the depth of the ditches. It did not take long to make Artagnan perceive the superiority of such a system, which gives no advantage to canon. Besides, as the fossils were lower than or on a level with the sea, these fossils could be instantly inundated by means of subterranean sluices. Otherwise the works were almost complete, and a group of workmen receiving orders from a man who appeared to be conductor of the works were occupied in placing the last stones. A bridge of planks thrown over the fossils for the greater convenience of the maneuvers connected with the barrows joined the interior to the exterior. With an air of simple curiosity, Artagnan asked if he might be permitted to cross the bridge, and he was told that no order prevented it. Consequently he crossed the bridge and advanced toward the group. The group was superintended by the man whom Artagnan had already remarked, and who appeared to be the engineer-in-chief. A plan was lying open for him on a large stone forming a table, and at some paces from him a crane was in action. This engineer, who by his evident importance first attracted the attention of Artagnan, wore a just decor, which from its sumptuousness was scarcely in harmony with the work he was employed in, that rather necessitated the costume of a master mason than of a noble. He was a man of immense stature, and great square shoulders, and wore a hat covered with feathers. He gesticulated in the most majestic manner, and appeared, for Artagnan only saw his back, to be scolding the workmen for their idleness and want of strength. Artagnan continued to draw nearer. At that moment the man with the feathers ceased to gesticulate, and with his hands placed upon his knees was following, half bent, the effort of six workmen to raise a block of hewn stone to the top of a piece of timber destined to support that stone, so that the cord of the crane might be passed under it. The six men, all on one side of the stone, united their efforts to raise it to eight or ten inches from the ground, sweating and blowing, whilst the seventh got ready against there should be daylight enough beneath it to slide in the roller that was to support it. But the stone had already twice escaped from their hands before gaining a sufficient height for the roller to be introduced. There can be no doubt that every time the stone escaped them, they bounded quickly backwards to keep their feet from being crushed by the re-falling stone. Every time the stone abandoned by them sunk deeper into the damp earth, which rendered the operation more and more difficult. A third effort was followed by no better success, but with progressive discouragement. And yet, when the six men were bent toward the stone, the man with the feathers had himself, with a powerful voice given the word of command, firm, which regulates maneuvers of strength, then he drew himself up. Oh-ho, said he. What is all this about? Have I to do with men of straw? Go in the booth, stand on one side, and you shall see how this is to be done. Pesta, said D'Artagnan, will he pretend to raise that rock? That would be a sight worth looking at. The workmen, as commanded by the engineer, drew back with their ears down and shaking their heads with the exception of the one who held the plank, who prepared to perform the office. The man with the feathers went up to the stone, stooped, slipped his hands under the face lying upon the ground, stiffened his herculean muscles, and without a strain with a slow motion, like that of a machine, he lifted the end of the rock afoot from the ground. The workmen who held the plank profited by the space thus given him and slipped the roller under the stone. That's the way, said the giant, not letting the rock fall again, but placing it upon its support. Mordir, cried D'Artagnan, I know but one man capable of such a feat of strength. Hine, cried the colossus turning round. Porthos! murmured D'Artagnan, seized with stupor. Porthos at Belial! On his part, the man with the feathers fixed his eyes upon the disguised lieutenant, and in spite of his metamorphosis recognized him. D'Artagnan! cried he, and the color mounted to his face. Hush! said he to D'Artagnan. Hush! in his turn, said the musketeer. In fact, if Porthos had just been discovered by D'Artagnan, D'Artagnan had just been discovered by Porthos. The interest of the particular secret of each struck them both at the same instant. Nevertheless, the first movement of the two men was to throw their arms around each other. What they wished to conceal from the bystanders was not their friendship, but their names. But after the embrace came reflection. What the devil brings Porthos to Belial? Lifting stones! said D'Artagnan. Only D'Artagnan uttered that question in a low voice. Less strong in diplomacy than his friend, Porthos thought aloud. How the devil did you come to Belial? asked he of D'Artagnan. And what do you want to do here? It was necessary to reply without hesitation. To hesitate in his answer to Porthos would have been a check for which the self-love of D'Artagnan would never have consoled itself. Pardue, my friend, I am at Belial because you are. Oh! Bah! said Porthos, visibly stupefied with the argument and seeking to account for it to himself. With the felicity of deduction we know to be peculiar to him. Without doubt, continued D'Artagnan, unwilling to give his friend time to recollect himself. I have been to see you at Pierre Fond. Indeed? Yes. Then you did not find me there. No, but I found Mouston. Is he well? Peste. Well, but Mouston did not tell you I was here. Why should he not have? I perchance deserve to lose his confidence. No, but he did not know it. Well, that is a reason at least that does not offend my self-love. Then how did you manage to find me? My dear friend, a great noble like you always leaves traces behind him on his passage, and I should think but poorly of myself if I were not sharp enough to follow the traces of my friends. This explanation, flattering as it was, did not entirely satisfy Porthos. But I left no traces behind me, for I came here disguised. Said Porthos. Ha! You came disguised, did you? said Artagnan. Yes. And how? As a miller. And do you think a great noble like you, Porthos, can affect common manners so as to deceive people? Well, I swear to you, my friend, that I played my part so well that everybody was deceived. Indeed, so well that I have not discovered and joined you. Yes, but how did you discover and join me? Stop a bit. I was going to tell you how. Do you imagine Mouston? Ah, it was that fellow Mouston. Said Porthos, gathering up those two triumphant arches which served him for eyebrows. But stop. I tell you, it was no fault of Mouston's because he was ignorant of where you were. I know he was, and that is why I am in such haste to understand. Oh, how impatient you are, Porthos. When I do not comprehend, I am terrible. Well, you will understand. Aramis wrote to you at Pierfond, did he not? Yes. And he told you to come before the equinox. That is true. Well, that is it, said D'Artagnan, hoping that this reason would mystify Porthos. Porthos appeared to give himself up to a violent mental labor. Yes. Yes, said he. I understand, as Aramis told me to come before the equinox, you have understood that that was to join him. You then inquired where Aramis was, saying to yourself where Aramis is, there Porthos will be. You have learned that Aramis was in Britannia, and you said to yourself Porthos is in Britannia. Exactly. In good truth, Porthos, I cannot tell why you have not turned conjurer. So you understand that, arriving at Rochebinard, I heard of the splendid fortifications going on at Belial. The account raised my curiosity. I embarked in a fishing boat without dreaming that you were here. I came, and I saw a monstrous fine fellow lifting a stone Ajax could not have stirred. I cried out, nobody but the baron de brassieu could have performed such a feat of strength. You heard me. You turned round. You recognized me, we embraced and mafois. If you like my dear friend, we will embrace again. Ah, now all is explained, said Porthos, and he embraced D'Artagnan with so much friendship as to deprive the musketeer of his breath for five minutes. Why, you are stronger than ever, said D'Artagnan, and still happily in your arms. Porthos saluted D'Artagnan with a gracious smile. During the five minutes D'Artagnan was recovering his breath, he reflected that he had a very difficult part to play. It was necessary that he always should question and never reply. By the time his respiration returned, he had fixed his plans for the campaign. End of Chapter 69 Recording by John Van Stan Savannah, Georgia Chapter 70 of the D'Artagnan Romances, Volume 3, Part 1 by Alexander Dumas, translated by William Robson. This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Wherein the ideas of D'Artagnan, at first strangely clouded, begin to clear up a little. D'Artagnan immediately took the offensive. Now that I have told you all, dear friend, or rather, now you have guessed all, tell me what you are doing here covered with dust and mud. Porthos wiped his brow and looked around him with pride. Why, it appears, said he, that you may see what I am doing here. No doubt, no doubt, you lift great stones. Oh, to show these idle fellows what a man is, said Porthos with contempt. But you understand. Yes, that it is not your place to lift stones, although there are many whose place it is, who cannot lift them as you do. It was that which made me ask you just now, what are you doing here, Baron? I am studying topography, Chevalier. You are studying topography? Yes, but you, what are you doing in that common dress? D'Artagnan perceived he had committed a fault in giving expression to his astonishment. Porthos had taken advantage of it to retort with a question. Why, said he, you know I am a bourgeois, in fact, my dress then has nothing astonishing in it since it conforms with my condition. Nonsense, you are a musketeer. You are wrong, my friend, I have given in my resignation. Bah. Oh, Mandu, yes. And have you abandoned the service? I have quitted it. You have abandoned the king? Quite. Porthos raised his arms toward heaven, like a man who has heard extraordinary news. Well, that does confound me, said he. It is nevertheless true. And what led you to form such a resolution? The king displeased me. Mazarene had disgusted me for a long time, as you know. So I threw my cassock to the nettles. But, Mazarene is dead. I know that well enough, parbleur. Only at the period of his death, my resignation had been given in, and accepted, two months. Then, feeling myself free, I set off for Pierre Fawn to see my friend Porthos. I had heard talk of the happy division you had made of your time, and I wished for a fortnight to divide mine after your fashion. My friend, you know that it is not for a fortnight my house is open to you. It is for a year, for ten years, for life. Thank you, Porthos. Ah, but perhaps you want money, do you? Said Porthos, making something like fifty Louis chink in his pocket. In that case, you know. No, thank you. I am not in want of anything. I placed my savings with planchette, who pays me the interest of them. Your savings? Yes, to be sure, said D'Artagnan. Why should I not put by my savings, as well as another, Porthos? Oh, there is no reason why. On the contrary, I always suspected you. That is to say, Aramis always suspected you to have savings. For my own part, D.S.C., I take no concern about the management of my household, but I presume the savings of a musketeer must be small. No doubt, relative to yourself, Porthos, who are a millionaire. But you shall judge. I had laid by twenty-five thousand lever. That's pretty well, said Porthos, with an affable air. And, continued D'Artagnan, on the twenty-eighth of last month, I added to it two hundred thousand lever more. Porthos opened his large eyes, which eloquently demanded of the musketeer. Where the devil did you steal such a sum as that, my dear friend? Two hundred thousand lever! cried he at length. Yes, which, with the twenty-five I had and twenty-thousand I have about me, complete the sum of two hundred and forty-five thousand lever. But tell me, whence comes this fortune? I will tell you all about it presently, dear friend. But, as you have in the first place, many things to tell me yourself, let us have my recital in its proper order. Bravo, said Porthos. Then we are both rich. But what can I have to relate to you? You have to relate to me how Aramis came to be named. Ah, Bishop of Van. That's it, said D'Artagnan. Bishop of Van, dear Aramis, do you know how he succeeded so well? Yes, yes, without reckoning that he does not mean to stop there. What? Do you mean he will not be contented with violet stockings, and that he wants a red hat? Hush, that is promised him. Bah, by the king? By somebody more powerful than the king. Ha, the devil! Porthos, what incredible things you tell me, my friend. Why incredible? Is there not always somebody in France more powerful than the king? Oh, yes. In the time of King Louis XIII, it was Cardinal Richelieu. In the time of the Regency, it was Cardinal Mazarin. In the time of Louis XIV, it is Monsieur... Go on. It is Monsieur Fouquet. Chauve, you have hit it the first time. So then, I suppose it is Monsieur Fouquet who has promised Aramis the red hat? Porthos assumed an heir of reserve. Dear friend, said he. God preserve me from meddling with the affairs of others. Above all, from revealing secrets it may be to their interest to keep. When you see Aramis, he will tell you all he thinks he ought to tell you. You are right, Porthos, and you are quite a padlock for safety, but to revert to yourself. Yes, said Porthos. You said just now you came hither to study topography. I did so. To do, my friend, what fine things you will do. How do you mean? Why, these fortifications are admirable. Is that your opinion? Decidedly it is. In truth, to anything but a regular siege, Belial is absolutely impregnable. Porthos rubbed his hands. That is my opinion, said he. But who the devil has fortified this paltry little place in this manner? Porthos drew himself up proudly. Did I not tell you? Did I not tell you who? No. Do you not suspect? No. All I can say is that he is a man who has studied all the systems, and who appears to me to have stopped at the best. Hush, said Porthos. Consider my modesty, my dear D'Artagnan. In truth, replied the musketeer, can it be you who Oh, pray, my dear friend. You who have imagined, traced and combined between these bastions, these redants, these curtains, these half moons, and are preparing that covered way. I beg you. You who have built that lunette with its retiring angles and its salient angles. My friend. You who have given that inclination to the openings of your embrasures, by means of which you so effectively protect the men who serve the guns. Hey, mon die, yes. Oh, Porthos, Porthos. I must bow down before you. I must admire you. But you have always concealed from us this superb, this incomparable genius. I hope, my dear friend, you will show me all this in detail. Nothing more easy. Here lies my original sketch, my plan. Show it me. Porthos led D'Artagnan toward the stone that served him for a table, and upon which the plan was spread. At the foot of the plan was written in the formidable writing of Porthos, writing of which we have already had occasion to speak. Instead of making use of the square or rectangle, as has been done to this time, you will suppose your place enclosed in a regular hexagon. This polygon, having the advantage of offering more angles than the quadrilateral one. Every side of your hexagon, of which you will determine the length and proportion to the dimensions taken upon the place, will be divided into two parts. And upon the middle point, you will elevate a perpendicular toward the centre of the polygon, which will equal in length the sixth part of the side. But the extremities of each side of the polygon, you will trace two diagonals, which will cut the perpendicular. These will form the precise lines of your defence. The devil, said D'Artagnan, stopping at this point of the demonstration. Why, this is a complete system, Porthos. Entirely, said Porthos. Continue. No, I have read enough of it, but since it is you, my dear Porthos, who direct the works, what need have you of setting down your system so formally in writing? Oh, my dear friend, death. How? Death? Why, we are all mortal, are we not? That is true, said D'Artagnan. You have a reply for everything, my friend. And he replaced the plan upon the stone. But however short the time he had the plan in his hands, D'Artagnan had been able to distinguish under the enormous writing of Porthos a much more delicate hand, which reminded him of certain letters to Marie-Michant, with which he had been acquainted in his youth. Only the India rubber had passed and repass so often over this writing that it might have escaped the less practised eye than that of our musketeer. Bravo, my friend, bravo! said D'Artagnan. And now you know all that you want to know, do you not? Said Porthos, wheeling about. Morde, yes, only do me one last favour, dear friend. Speak, I am master here. Do me the pleasure to tell me the name of that gentleman who was walking yonder. Where? There. Behind the soldiers. Followed by a lackey? Exactly. In company with a mean sort of a fellow dressed in black. Yes, I mean him. That is Monsieur Guitard. And who is Guitard, my friend? He is the architect of the house. Of what house? Of Monsieur Fouquet's house. Ha-ha! cried D'Artagnan. You are of the household of Monsieur Fouquet, then, Porthos. I? What do you mean by that? Said the topographer, blushing to the top of his ears. Why, you say the house when speaking of Belial, as if you were speaking of the chateau of Pierfond. Porthos bit his lips. Belial, my friend, said he, belongs to Monsieur Fouquet, does it not? Yes, I believe so. As Pierfond belongs to me. I told you, I believe so. There are no two words to that. Did you ever see a man there, who is accustomed to walk about with a ruler in his hand? No, but I might have seen him there if he really walked there. Well, that gentleman is Monsieur Bullengran. Who is Monsieur Bullengran? Now, we are coming to it. If when this gentleman is walking with a ruler in his hand, anyone should ask me, who is Monsieur Bullengran? I should reply, he is the architect of the house. Well, Monsieur Guitard is the Bullengran of Monsieur Fouquet, but he has nothing to do with the fortifications, which are my department alone. Do you understand? Mine, absolutely mine. Porthos cried D'Artagnan, letting his arms fall as a conquered man gives up his sword. My friend, you are not only a Herculean topographer, you are still further a dialectician of the first water. Is it not powerfully reasoned? said Porthos, and he puffed in blue like the conjure which D'Artagnan had let slip from his hand. And now, said D'Artagnan, that shabby-looking man who accompanies Monsieur Guitard, is he also of the household of Monsieur Fouquet? Oh, yes, said Porthos with contempt. It is Monsieur Jupinette, sort of poet. Who has come to establish himself here? I believe so. I thought Monsieur Fouquet had poets enough, yonder. Scudderie, Loire, Pelisson, La Fontaine. If I must tell you the truth, Porthos, that poet disgraces you. My friend, but what saves us is that he is not here as a poet. As what, then, is he? As printer, and you make me remember. I have a word to say to the quister. Say it, then. Porthos made a sign to Jupinette, who perfectly recollected D'Artagnan and did not care to come nearer, which naturally produced another sign from Porthos. This was so imperative he was obliged to obey. As he approached. Come hither, said Porthos. You only landed yesterday, and you have begun your tricks already. How so, Monsieur Lebaron? Asked Jupinette trembling. Your press was groaning all night, Monsieur. Said Porthos. And you prevented my sleeping, corn de berth. Monsieur. Objected, Jupinette, timidly. You have nothing yet to print, therefore you have no occasion to set your press going. What did you print last night? Monsieur, a light poem of my own composition. Light? No, no, Monsieur. The press groaned piddively beneath it. Let it not happen again. Do you understand? Yes, Monsieur. You promise me? I do, Monsieur. Very well. This time I pardon you. Adieu. Well. Now we have combed that fellow's head. Let us breakfast. Yes, replied D'Artagnan. Let us breakfast. Only, said Porthos. I beg you to observe, my friend, that we have only two hours for our repast. What would you have? We will try to make two hours suffice. But why have you only two hours? Because it is high tide at one o'clock, and with the tide I am going to van. But, as I shall return tomorrow, my dear friend, you can stay here. You shall be master. I have a good cook and a good seller. No, interrupted D'Artagnan. Better than that. What? You are going to van, you say? To a certainty. To see Eremus. Yes. Well, I came from Paris on purpose to see Eremus. That's true. I will go with you then. Do. That's the thing. Only, I ought to have seen Eremus first than you after. But man proposes and God disposes. I have begun with you and will finish with Eremus. Very well. And in how many hours can you go from here to van? Oh, but dear, in six hours. Three hours by sea to Sarzol. Three hours by road from Sarzol to van. How convenient that is. Being so near to the bishopric, do you often go to van? Yes, once a week. But stop till I get my plan. Porthos picked up his plan, folded it carefully, and engulfed it in his large pocket. Good, said D'Artagnan aside. I think I know the real engineer who is fortifying Belial. Two hours after, at high tide, Porthos and D'Artagnan set out for Sarzol. End of Chapter 70, recording by John Van Stan. Savannah, Georgia. Chapter 71 of the D'Artagnan Romances, Volume 3, Part 1 by Alexander Dumas, translated by William Robson. This Leap-A-Vox recording is in the public domain. A procession at van. The passage from Belial to Sarzol was made rapidly enough, thanks to one of those little corsairs of which D'Artagnan had been told during his voyage, and which, shaped for fast sailing and destined for the chase, were sheltered at that time in the roadstead of Loch Maria, where one of them, with a quarter of its war crew, performed duty between Belial and the continent. D'Artagnan had an opportunity of convincing himself that Porthos, though engineer and topographer, was not deeply versed in affairs of state. His perfect ignorance, with any other, might have passed for well-informed dissimulation, but D'Artagnan knew too well all the folds and refolds of his Porthos, not to find a secret if there were one there, like those regular, minute old bachelors who know how to find, with their eyes shut, each book on the shelves of their library, and each piece of linen in their wardrobe. So, if he had found nothing, our cunning D'Artagnan enrolling and unrolling his Porthos, it was because in truth there was nothing to be found. Be it so, said D'Artagnan, I shall get to know more at Van in half an hour than Porthos has discovered at Belial in two months, only in order that I may know something. It is important that Porthos should not make use of the only strategy I leave at his disposal. He must not warn Aramis of my arrival. All the care of the musketeer was then for the moment confined to the watching of Porthos. Let us hasten to say, Porthos did not deserve all this mistrust. Porthos thought of no evil, perhaps on first seeing him D'Artagnan had inspired him with a little suspicion, but almost immediately D'Artagnan had reconquered in that good and brave heart the place he had always occupied, and not the least cloud darkened the large eye of Porthos, fixed from time to time with tenderness on his friend. On landing, Porthos inquired if his horses were waiting, and soon perceived them at the crossing of the road that winds round Sartso, and which, without passing through that little city, leads toward Van. These horses were two in number, one for Mishir de Valhon, and one for his equary, for Porthos had an equary since Moustan was only able to use a carriage as a means of locomotion. D'Artagnan expected that Porthos would propose to send forward his equary upon one horse to bring back another, and he, D'Artagnan, had made up his mind to oppose this proposition. But nothing D'Artagnan had expected happened. Porthos simply told the equary to dismount, and await his return at Sartso, whilst D'Artagnan would ride his horse which was arranged. Hey, but you are quite a man of precaution, my dear Porthos, said D'Artagnan to his friend when he found himself in the saddle upon the equary's horse. Yes, but this is a kindness on the part of Eremus. I have not my stud here, and Eremus has placed his stables at my disposal. Good horses for Bishop's horses, my dear, said D'Artagnan. It is true, Eremus is a bishop of a peculiar kind. He is a holy man, replied Porthos in a tone almost nasal, and with his eyes raised toward heaven. Then he has much changed, said D'Artagnan. You and I have known him passively profane. Grace has touched him, said Porthos. Bravo, said D'Artagnan, that redoubles my desire to see my dear old friend, and he spurred his horse which sprang off into a more rapid pace. Peste, said Porthos, if we go on at this rate, we shall only take one hour instead of two. To go how far do you say, Porthos? For leagues and a half. That will be a good pace. I could have embarked you on the canal, but the devil take rowers and boat horses. The first are like tortoises. The second like snails. And when a man is able to put a good horse between his knees, that horse is better than rowers or any other means. You are right. You above all, Porthos, who always look magnificent on horseback. Rather heavy, my friend. I was weighed the other day. And what do you weigh? Three hundred weight, said Porthos proudly. Bravo! So that you must perceive I am forced to choose horses whose loins are straight and wide, otherwise I break them down in two hours. Yes, giants horses you must have, must you not? You are very polite, my friend, replied the engineer with affectionate majesty. As a case in point, replied D'Artagnan, your horse seems to sweat already. Dame, it is hot. Ah, ah, do you see that now? Yes, perfectly. It is a handsome city, apparently. Charming, according to Aramis at least, but I think it black. But black seems to be considered handsome by artists. I am sorry for it. Why so, Porthos? Because I have lately had my chateau appear fond, which was gray with age, plastered white. Hmph, said D'Artagnan, and white is more cheerful. Yes, but it is less august, as Aramis tells me. Fortunately there are dealers in black as well as white. I will have pier fonds re-plastered in black. That's all there is about it. If gray is handsome, you understand, my friend, black must be superb. Dame, said D'Artagnan, that appears logical. Were you never at band, D'Artagnan? Never. Then you know nothing of the city. Nothing. Well, look, said Porthos, raising himself in his stirrups which made the four quarters of his horse bend sadly. Do you see that corner in the sun yonder? Yes, I see it plainly. Well, that is the cathedral. Which is called? Saint Pierre. Now, look again, in the fowlborg on the left. Do you see another cross? Perfectly well. That is Saint Béterne, the parish preferred by Aramis. Indeed. Without doubt. Saint Béterne, you see, passes for having been the first bishop of van. It is true that Aramis pretends he was not. But he is so learned that that may be only a parrow, uh, para. A paradox, said D'Artagnan. Precisely. Thank you. My tongue trips. I am so hot. My friend, said D'Artagnan, continue your interesting description, I beg. What is that large white building with many windows? Oh, that is the college of the Jesuits. For do you have an apt hand? Do you see close to the college a large house with steeples, turrets built in a handsome Gothic style as that fool, Miss Sherget Todd says? Yes, that is plainly to be seen. Well? Well, that is where Aramis resides. What? Does he not reside at the Episcopal Palace? No, that is in ruins. The palace likewise is in the city, and Aramis prefers the fowlborgs. That is why, as I told you, he is partial to Saint Béterne. Saint Béterne is in the fowlborg. Besides, there are in this fowlborg a mall, a tennis court, and a house of Dominicans. Look, that, where the handsome steeple rises to the heavens. Well? Next, you see the fowlborg is like a separate city. It has its walls, its towers, its ditches. The quay is upon it likewise, and the boats land at the quay. If our little Corsair did not draw eight feet of water, we could have come full sail up to Aramis's windows. Porthos, Porthos, cried D'Artagnan. You are a well of knowledge, a spring of ingenious and profound reflections. Porthos, you no longer surprise me. You confound me. Here we are, said Porthos, turning the conversation with his usual modesty. And high time we were, thought D'Artagnan, for Aramis's horse is melting away like a steed of ice. They entered almost at the same instant the fowlborg, but scarcely had they gone a hundred paces when they were surprised to find the streets strewn with leaves and flowers. Against the old walls of van hung the oldest and the strangest tapestries of France. From over balconies fell long white sheets, stuck all over with bouquets. The streets were deserted. It was plain the entire population was assembled on one point. The blinds were closed and the breeze penetrated into the houses under the hangings which cast long black shades between their places of issue and the walls. Suddenly, at the turning of a street, chants struck the ears of the newly arrived travellers. A crowd in Holiday Garb appeared through the vapours of incense which mounted to the heavens in blue fleeces, and clouds of rose-leaves fluttered as high as the first stories. Above all heads were to be seen the cross and banners, the sacred symbols of religion. Then beneath these crosses and banners, as if protected by them, walked a whole world of young girls clothed in white, crowned with cornflowers. At the two sides of the street, in closing the cortege, marched the guards of the garrison, carrying bouquets in the barrels of their muskets and on the points of their lances, this was the procession. Whilst Artania and Porthos were looking on with critical glances, which disguised in extreme impatience to get forward, a magnificent dais approached preceded by a hundred Jesuits and a hundred Dominicans, and escorted by two archdeacons a treasurer, a penitent, and twelve cannons. A singer with a thundering voice, a man certainly picked out from all the voices of France, as was the drum major of the imperial guard from all the giants of the empire, escorted by four other chanters, who appeared to be there only to serve him as an accompaniment, made their air resound and the windows of the houses vibrate. Under the dais appeared a pale and noble countenance with black eyes, black hair streaked with threads of white, a delicate compressed mouth, a prominent and angular chin. His head, full of graceful majesty, was covered with the episcopal mitre, a headdress which gave it in addition to the character of sovereignty, that of asceticism and evangelical meditation. Aramis cried the musketeer involuntarily, as this lofty countenance passed before him. The prelates started at the sound of the voice. He raised his large black eyes with their long lashes and turned them without hesitation, toward the spot once the exclamation proceeded. At a glance he saw Porthos and D'Artagnan close to him. On his part D'Artagnan, thanks to the keenness of his sight, had seen all, seized all. The full portrait of the prelate had entered his memory, never to leave it. One thing had particularly struck D'Artagnan. On perceiving him, Aramis had colored. Then he had concentrated under his eyelids the fire of the look of the master, and the indefinable affection of the friend. It was evident that Aramis had asked himself this question. Why is D'Artagnan with Porthos? And what does he want at van? Aramis comprehended all that was passing in the mind of D'Artagnan, on turning his look upon him again, and seeing that he had not lowered his eyes. He knew the acuteness and intelligence of his friend. He feared to let him divine the secret of his blush, and his astonishment. He was still the same Aramis, always having a secret to conceal. Therefore, to put an end to his look of an inquisitor, which it was necessary to get rid of at all events, as at any price a general extinguishes a battery which annoys him, Aramis stretched forth his beautiful white hand upon which sparkled the amethyst of the pastoral ring. He cut the air with sign of the cross, and poured out his benediction upon his two friends. Perhaps thoughtful and absent, D'Artagnan, impious in spite of himself, might not have bent beneath this holy benediction. But Porthos saw his distraction, and laying his friendly hand upon the back of his companion, he crushed him down toward the earth. D'Artagnan was forced to give way. Indeed, he was little sure to being flat on the ground. In the meantime, Aramis had passed. D'Artagnan, like Anteus, had only touched the ground, and he turned toward Porthos, almost angry. But there was no mistaking the intention of the brave Hercules. It was a feeling of religious propriety that influenced him. Besides, speech with Porthos, 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 at 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 perfumes were mingled with the perfumes of the air and the sea, the city breathed happiness, joy, and strength. Tartanian felt something like the presence of an invisible hand, which had all-powerfully created the strength, this joy, this happiness, and spread everywhere these perfumes. Said he, Porthos has got fat, but Aramis is grown taller. End of Chapter 71, Recording by John Van Stan, Savannah, Georgia Chapter 72 of the Tartanian Romances, Volume 3 Part 1 by Alexander Dumas, translated by William Robson. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Grandeur of the Bishop of Van Porthos and Tartanian had entered the bishop's residence by a private door, as his personal friends. Of course, Porthos served Tartanian as guide. The worthy baron comported himself everywhere rather as if he were at home. Nevertheless, whether it was a tacit acknowledgement 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 Van a sort of reserve, which Tartanian remarked at once, and 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 Tartanian 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 prelet. 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 in the lengthened royale of the time of Louis XIII. He exhaled on entering that delicate perfume 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 called on such an occasion, he went straight up to the musketeer, so well disguised under the costume of Monsieur Agnion, 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 ardour. Portos 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 Portos already ten times had been near injuring his fingers covered 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 manoeuvre, familiar to diplomatists and women, resembles much the advantage of the guard which, according to their skill or habit, combatants endeavour to take on the ground at a duel. D'Artagnan was not the dupe of this manoeuvre, but he not appear to perceive it. He felt himself caught, but precisely because he was caught he felt himself in the road to discovery, and it little imported to him, old condatiera 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. Hey, yes, he has been seeking you, Aramis, said Porthos, and the proof is that he has unharbored me at Belial. That is amiable, is it not? Ah, yes, said Aramis, at Belial, certainly. Good, said D'Artagnan, there is my booby Porthos without thinking of it as fired the first cannon of attack. At Belial, said Aramis, in that hole, in that desert, that is kind indeed. And it was I who told him you were at van, 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? 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 in Paris that the bishopric of van 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 tell you that the bishopric of van is worth about twenty thousand lever a year, neither more nor less. It is a diocese which contains a hundred and sixty parishes. That is very pretty, said D'Artagnan. It is superb, said Porthos. And yet, resumed D'Artagnan, throwing his eyes over Aramis, you don't mean to bury yourself here forever. Pardon me, only I do not admit the word bury. But it seems to me that at this distance from Paris, a man is buried, or nearly so. My friend, I am getting old, said Aramis. The noise and bustle of a city no longer suit me. At fifty-seven we ought to seek calm and meditation. I have found them here. What is there more beautiful and stern at the same time than this old Amorica? I find here, dear D'Artagnan, all that is opposite to what I formerly loved. And that is what must happen at the end of life, which is opposite to the beginning. A little of my odd pleasure of former time still comes to salute me here. Now and then, without diverting me from the road of salvation, I am still of this world, and yet every step that I take brings me nearer to God. Eloquent, wise, and discreet, you are an accomplished prelate Aramis, and I offer you my congratulations. But, said Aramis, smiling, you did not come here only for the purpose of paying me compliments. Speak, what brings you hither? May it be that, in some fashion or other, you want me? Thank God, no, my friend, said D'Artagnan. It is nothing of that kind. I am rich and free. Rich? exclaimed Aramis. Yes, rich for me, not for you or Porthos understand. I have an income of about fifteen thousand lever. Aramis looked at him suspiciously. He could not believe, particularly on seeing his friend in such humble guys, that he had made so fine a fortune. Then D'Artagnan, seeing that the hour of explanations was come, related the history of his English adventures. During the recital he saw ten times the eyes of the prelate sparkle, and his slender fingers worked convulsively. As to Porthos, it was not admiration he manifested for D'Artagnan. It was enthusiasm, it was delirium, when D'Artagnan had finished. Well, said Aramis. Well, said D'Artagnan, you see, then, I have in England friends and property, in France a treasure. If your heart tells you so, I offer them to you. That is what I came here for. However firm was his look, he could not this time support the look of Aramis. He allowed therefore his eye to stray upon Porthos, like the sword which yields to too powerful a pressure, and seeks another road. At all events, said the bishop, you have assumed a singular traveling costume, old friend. Frightful, I know it is. You may understand why I would not travel as a cavalier or a noble, since I became rich. I am miserly. And you say, then, that you came to Balil? said Aramis without transition. Yes, replied D'Artagnan, I knew I should find you and Porthos there. Find me? cried Aramis. Me? For the last year past I have not once crossed the sea. Oh, said D'Artagnan, I should never have supposed you such a housekeeper. Ah, dear friend, I must tell you that I am no longer the Aramis of former times. Riding on horseback is unpleasant to me. The sea fatigues me. I am a poor ailing priest, always complaining, always grumbling and inclined to the austerities, which appear to accord with old age. Preliminary parlayings with death. I linger, my dear D'Artagnan. I linger. Well, that is all the better, my friend, for we shall probably be neighbors soon. Bah! said Aramis with a degree of surprise. He did not even seek to disassemble you, my neighbor. Moidu! Yes? How so? I am about to purchase some very profitable salt mines, which are situated between Pyrrhyal and Crossique. Imagine, my friend, a clear profit of twelve percent. Never any deficiency. Never any idle expenses. The ocean, faithful and regular, brings every twelve hours its contingency to my coffers. I am the first Parisian who has dreamt of such a speculation. Do not say anything about it. I beg of you, and in a short time we will communicate on the matter. I am to have three leagues of country for thirty thousand Viva. Aramis darted a look at Porthos, as if to ask if all this were true, if some snare were not concealed beneath this outward indifference. But soon, as if ashamed of having consulted this poor auxiliary, he collected all his forces for fresh assault and new defence. I heard that you had had some difference with the court, but that you had come out of it as you know how to get through everything, d'Artagnan, with the honours of war. I, said the musketeer, with a burst of laughter that did not conceal his embarrassment for, from these words, Aramis was not unlikely to be acquainted with his last relations with the king. I, oh, tell me all about that, pray, Aramis. Yes, it was related to me a poor bishop lost in the middle of the land that the king had taken you as the confidant of his amours. With whom? With mademoiselle de Mancini. D'Artagnan breathed freely again. I don't say no to that, replied he. It appears that the king took you one morning over the bridge of Blois to talk with his lady love. That's true, said D'Artagnan. And you know that, do you? Well, then you must know that the same day I gave in my resignation. What, sincerely? Nothing more so. It was after that, then, that you went to the compel affairs? Yes. Afterwards to me? Yes. And then Porthos? Yes. Was it in order to pay us a simple visit? No. I did not know you were engaged and I wished to take you with me into England. Yes. I understand. And then you executed alone, wonderful man as you are, what you wanted to propose to us all for. I suspected you had something to do with that famous restoration when I learned that you had been seen at King Charles's receptions and that he appeared to treat you like a friend, or rather like a person to whom he was under an obligation. But how the devil did you learn all that? asked D'Artagnan, who began to fear that the investigation of Aramis had extended further than he wished. Dear D'Artagnan, said the Prelate, My friendship resembles, in a degree, the solicitude of that night watch whom we have in the little tower of the Mole, at the extremity of the Quay, that brave man every night lights a lantern to direct the barks that come from sea. He is concealed in his sentry box, and the fishermen do not see him, but he follows them with interest. He divines them. He calls them. He attracts them into the way to the port. I resemble this watcher. From time to time some news reaches me and recalls to me my remembrance all those I loved. Then I follow the friends of old days over the stormy ocean of the world, I, a poor watcher, to whom God has kindly given the shelter of a sentry box. Well, what did I do when I came from England? Ah, there, replied Aramis, you get beyond my depth. I know nothing of you since your return. D'Artagnan, my eyes are dim. I regretted you did not think of me. I wept over your forgetfulness. I was wrong. I see you again, and it is a festival, a great festival. I assure you, solemnly. How is Athos? Very well, thank you. And a young pupil, Raul? He seems to have inherited the skill of his father, Athos, and the strength of his tutor, Porthos. And on what occasion have you been able to judge of that? Eh, mon-deux, on the eve of my departure from Paris. Indeed, tell me all about it. Yes, there was an execution at the grave, and in consequence of that execution a riot. We happened by accident to be in the riot, and in this riot we were obliged to have recourse to our swords, and he did wonders. Bah, what did he do? Why, in the first place, he threw a man under the window as he would have flung a shack full of flock. Come, that's pretty well, said Porthos. Then he drew and cut and thrust away, as we fellows used to do in the good old times. And what was the cause of this riot? said Porthos. D'Artagnan remarked upon the face of Aramis a complete indifference to this question of Porthos. Why, said he, fixing his eyes upon Aramis, on account of two farmers of the revenues, friends of Mr. Fouquet, whom the king forced to discord their plunder, and then hanged them. A scarcely perceptible contraction of the Prelate's brow showed that he had heard D'Artagnan's reply. Ho, ho, said Porthos. And what were the names of these friends of Mr. Fouquet? Mr. D'Emeri and Liador, said D'Artagnan. Do you know those names, Aramis? No. said the Prelate disdainfully. They sound like the names of financiers. Exactly, so they were. Ho, Mr. Fouquet allows his friends to be hanged then, said Porthos. And why not? said Aramis. Why, it seems to me. If these culprits were hanged, it was by order of the king. Now, Mr. Fouquet, although superintendent of the finances, has not, I believe, the right of life and death. That may be, said Porthos. But in the place of Mr. Fouquet. Aramis was afraid Porthos was about to say something awkward, so interrupted him. Come, D'Artagnan, said he, this is quite enough about other people. Let us talk a little about you. Of me, you know all that I can tell you. On the contrary, let me hear a little about you, Aramis. I have told you, my friend, there is nothing of Aramis left in me. Nor of the Abbey de Blay, even. No, not even of him. You see a man whom Providence has taken by the hand, whom he has conducted to a position that he could never have dared even to hope for. Providence? asked D'Artagnan. Yes. Well, that is strange. I was told it was Mr. Fouquet. Who told you that? Cried Aramis, without being able with all the power of his will, to prevent the color rising to his cheeks. M'fois, why, b'zan! The fool. I do not say he is a man of genius, it is true, but he told me so, and after him I repeat it to you. I have never seen Mr. Fouquet. Replied Aramis with a look as pure and calm as that of a virgin, who has never told a lie. Well, but if you had seen him and known him, there is no harm in that. Replied D'Artagnan, Mr. Fouquet is a very good sort of man. Huff, a great politician. Aramis made a gesture of indifference, and an all-powerful minister. I only hold to the king and the pope. D'Aim, listen then, said D'Artagnan in the most natural tone imaginable. I said that because everybody here swears by Mr. Fouquet. The plain is Mr. Fouquet's. The salt mines I am about to buy are Mr. Fouquet's. The island in which Porto studies topography is Mr. Fouquet's. The galleys are Mr. Fouquet's. I confess then that nothing would have surprised me in your enfifment, or rather in that of your diocese, to Mr. Fouquet. He is a different master from the king, that is all, but quite as powerful as Louis. Thank God! I am not vassal to anybody. I belong to nobody, and am entirely my own master. Replied Aramis, who during this conversation followed with his eye every gesture of D'Artagnan, every glance of Porto's. But D'Artagnan was impassable in Porto's motionless. The thrusts aimed so skillfully were perried by an able adversary. Not one hit the mark. Nevertheless, both began the field of fatigue of such a contest, and the announcement of supper was well received by everybody. Supper changed the course of conversation. Besides, they felt that, upon their guard, as each one had been, they could neither of them boast of having the advantage. Porto's had understood nothing of what had been meant. He had held himself motionless because Aramis had made him a sign not to stir. Supper for him was nothing but supper, but that was quite enough for Porto's. The supper then went off very well. D'Artagnan was in high spirits. Aramis succeeded himself in kind affability. Porto's ate like old pillops. Their talk was of war, finance, the arts, and love. Aramis played astonishment at every word of politics. D'Artagnan risked. This long series of surprises increased the mistrust of D'Artagnan, as the eternal indifference of D'Artagnan provoked the suspicions of Aramis. At length, D'Artagnan designededly uttered the name of Colbert. He had reserved that stroke for the last. Who is this Colbert? asked the bishop. Oh, come! said D'Artagnan to himself. That is too strong. We must be careful, more dear we must be careful. And he then gave Aramis all the information respecting the sure Colbert he could desire. The supper, or rather the conversation, was prolonged till one o'clock in the morning between D'Artagnan and Aramis. At ten o'clock precisely Porto's had fallen asleep in his chair and snored like an organ. At midnight he woke up and they sent him to bed. Um, said he, I was near falling asleep, but that was all very interesting you were talking about. At one o'clock Aramis conducted D'Artagnan to the chamber destined for him which was the best in the Episcopal residence. Two servants were placed at his command. Tomorrow, at eight o'clock, said he, taking leave of D'Artagnan, we will take, if agreeable to you, a ride on horseback with Porto's. At eight o'clock, said D'Artagnan, so late, you know that I require seven hours sleep, said Aramis. That is true. Good night, dear friend. And he embraced the musketeer cordially. D'Artagnan allowed him to depart, then as soon as the door closed. Good! cried he, at five o'clock I will be on foot. This determination being made he went to bed and quietly put two and two together, as people say. End of chapter seventy-two, recording by John Van Stan, Savannah, Georgia.