“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 parleyings 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 Piriac and Le Croisic.  Imagine, my dear 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 those 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.”