The Grandeur of the Bishop of Vannes
Porthos and D’Artagnan had entered the bishop’s residence by a private
door, as his personal friends. Of course, Porthos served D’Artagnan as
guide. The worthy baron comported himself everywhere rather as if he
were at home. Nevertheless, whether it was a tacit acknowledgment 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 Vannes a sort of reserve which D’Artagnan
remarked at once, in 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 D’Artagnan 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 prelate. 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, and 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 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 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——”
“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 tell you
that the bishopric of Vannes is worth about twenty thousand livres 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 Armorica. 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 times 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 livres.”
Aramis looked at him suspiciously. He could not believe—particularly on
seeing his friend in such humble guise—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 work 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, you came to Belle-Isle?” 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
dissemble. “You my neighbor!”
“Mordioux! yes.”
“How so?”
“I am about to purchase some very profitable salt-mines, which are
situated between Pirial and Croisic. Imagine, my friend, a clear profit
of twelve per cent. 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 livres.”
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 a fresh assault and new defense. “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 honors 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
Landes, that the king had taken you as the confidant of his amours.”
“With whom?”
“With Mademoiselle de Mancini.”
D’Artagnan breathed freely again. “Ah! 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 Comte de la Fere’s?”
“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 four. 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 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 our young pupil, Raoul?”
“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 Dieu! on the eve of my departure from Paris.”
“Indeed! tell me all about it!”
“Yes; there was an execution at the Greve, 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 out of the window, as he would
have flung a sack 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 M. Fouquet, whom
the king forced to disgorge their plunder, and then hanged them.”
A scarcely perceptible contraction of the prelate’s brow showed that he
had heard D’Artagnan’s reply.
“Oh, oh!” said Porthos; “and what were the names of these friends of M.
Fouquet?”
“MM. d’Eymeris and Lyodot,” 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.”
“Oh! M. 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 M.
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 M. 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 Abbe d’Herblay 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 M. 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.
“Ma foi! why, Bazin!”
“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 M. 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. “M. Fouquet is a very good sort of a man.”
“Humph!”
“A great politician.” Aramis made a gesture of indifference.
“An all-powerful minister.”
“I only hold to the king and the pope.”
“Dame! listen then,” said D’Artagnan, in the most natural tone
imaginable. “I said that because everybody here swears by M. Fouquet.
The plain is M. Fouquet’s; the salt-mines I am about to buy are M.
Fouquet’s; the island in which Porthos studies topography is M.
Fouquet’s; the galleys are M. Fouquet’s. I confess, then, that nothing
would have surprised me in your enfeoffment, or rather in that of your
diocese, to M. 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
Porthos. But D’Artagnan was impassible and Porthos motionless; the
thrusts aimed so skillfully were parried by an able adversary; not one
hit the mark. Nevertheless, both began to feel the 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. Porthos 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 Porthos. The supper, then, went off very well.
D’Artagnan was in high spirits. Aramis exceeded himself in kind
affability. Porthos ate like old Pelops. 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, designedly,
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, mordioux! we must be careful.”
And he then gave Aramis all the information respecting M. 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, Porthos had fallen asleep in his chair and snored
like an organ. At midnight he woke up and they sent him to bed. “Hum!”
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. “To-morrow, at eight o’clock,” said he, taking
leave of D’Artagnan, “we will take, if agreeable to you, a ride on
horseback with Porthos.”
“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.