“Why so, Porthos?”

“Because I have lately had my chateau of Pierrefonds, which was gray with age, plastered white.”

“Humph!” 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 Pierrefonds replastered 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 Vannes, D’Artagnan?”

“Never.”

“Then you know nothing of the city?”

“Nothing.”

“Well, look!” said Porthos, raising himself in his stirrups, which made the fore-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 faubourg on the left, do you see another cross?”

“Perfectly well.”

“That is Saint-Patern, the parish preferred by Aramis.”

“Indeed!”

“Without doubt.  Saint-Patern, you see, passes for having been the first bishop of Vannes.  It is true that Aramis pretends he was not.  But he is so learned that that may be only a paro — a 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. Pardieu! 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, M. Getard, 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 faubourgs.  That is why, as I told you, he is partial to Saint-Patern; Saint-Patern is in the faubourg.  Besides, there are in this faubourg 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 faubourg 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.”