They entered almost at the same instant the faubourg; but scarcely had they gone a hundred paces when they were surprised to find the streets strewed with leaves and flowers.  Against the old walls of Vannes, 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 travelers.  A crowd in holiday garb appeared through the vapors 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 corn-flowers.  At the two sides of the street, inclosing 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 D’Artagnan and Porthos were looking on with critical glances, which disguised an 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 canons.  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 the 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 evangelic meditation.

“Aramis!” cried the musketeer, involuntarily, as this lofty countenance passed before him.  The prelate started at the sound of the voice.  He raised his large black eyes, with their long lashes, and turned them without hesitation towards the spot whence 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