But the cardinal was rubbing his hands, and congratulating himself that he had discovered a secret for a tenth of the coin Richelieu would have spent on the matter.

D’Artagnan first sought for Aramis, who was now an abbe, and lived in a convent and wrote sermons.  But the heart of Aramis was not in religion, and when D’Artagnan found him, and the two had sat talking for some time, D’Artagnan said, “My friend, it seems to me that when you were a musketeer you were always thinking of the Church, and now that you are an abbe you are always longing to be a musketeer.”

“It’s true,” said Aramis.  “Man is a strange bundle of inconsistencies.  Since I became an abbe I dream of nothing but battles, and I practise shooting all day long here with an excellent master.”

Aramis indeed had both retained his swordsmanship and his interest in public affairs.  But when D’Artagnan mentioned Mazarin, and the serious crisis in the state, Aramis declared that Mazarin was an upstart with only the queen on his side; and that the young king, the nobles, and princes, were all against him.  Aramis was already on the side of Mazarin’s enemies.  He could not pledge himself to anyone, and the two separated.

D’Artagnan went on to find Porthos, whose address he had learnt from Aramis.  Porthos, who now called himself De Valon after the name of his estate, lived at ease as a country gentleman should; he was a widower and wealthy, but he was mortified because his neighbours were of ancient family and ignored him.  He received D’Artagnan with open arms, and when at breakfast he confessed his weariness, D’Artagnan at once invited him to join him again and promised that he would get a barony for his services.

“Go into harness again!” cried D’Artagnan.  “Gird on your sword, and win a coronet.  You want a title; I want money; the cardinal wants our help.”

“For my part,” said the gigantic Porthos, “I certainly want to be made a baron.”

They talked of Athos, who lived on his estate at Bragelonne, and was now the Count de la Fere.  And Porthos mentioned that Athos had an adopted son.

“If we can get Athos, all will be well,” said D’Artagnan.  “If we cannot, we must do without him.  We two are worth a dozen.”

“Yes,” said Porthos, smiling at the remembrance of their old exploits; “but we four would be equal to thirty-six.”

“I have your word, then?” said D’Artagnan.

“Yes.  I will fight heart and soul for the cardinal; but—­but he must make me a baron.”

“Oh, that’s settled already!” said D’Artagnan.  “I’ll answer for your barony.”

With that he had his horse saddled, and rode on to the castle of Bragelonne.  Athos was visibly moved at the sight of D’Artagnan, and rushed towards him and clasped him in his arms.  D’Artagnan, equally moved, held him closely, while tears stood in his eyes.  Athos seemed scarcely aged at all, in spite of his eight-and-forty years; but there was a greater dignity about his face.  Formerly, too, he had been a heavy drinker, but now no signs of excess disturbed the calm serenity of his countenance.  The presence of his son, whom he called Raoul—­a boy of fifteen—­seemed to explain to D’Artagnan the regenerated existence of Athos.