The Three Musketeers (The Modern Library) - Alexandre Dumas [142]
It was D’Artagnan’s turn to heave a deep sigh.
“Alas, dear Aramis, it is my own story you are relating.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, a woman I loved—a woman I adored—has just been taken away from me by force. I do not know where she is; I cannot guess where her abductors have lodged her. Is she in prison? Is she dead? I know nothing of it.”
“At least you have the consolation of knowing that she did not leave you of her own free will,” Aramis pointed out. “At least you can be sure that if you have no news of her, it is because she is held incommunicado. While I—”
“While you—? What?”
“Nothing, my friend, nothing!”
“And so you are renouncing the world forever, eh? Your decision is irrevocable and the die is cast.”
“Forever and ever. Today you are my friend D’Artagnan; tomorrow you will be no more to me than a shadow, or even less, for you will have ceased to exist for me. As for the world, it is but a sepulchre, no more, no less.”
“Damn it, all that you say is really very sad.”
“What would you have me say? My vocation commands, I can but obey.” D’Artagnan smiled but made no answer. Aramis continued, “Yet, while I still am of this earth, I should wish to speak of you and of our friends.”
“I too should wish to speak of you, Aramis. Unfortunately you are so utterly detached from everything: Love, you spurn as a snare and a delusion, your friends are shadows, and the world is a sepulchre.”
“You will find this out for yourself some day,” Aramis sighed.
“Well, then, let us drop the subject,” D’Artagnan proposed. “I am perfectly willing to burn this letter I have here.”
“A letter?”
“A letter which doubtless reports some new infidelity on the part of your chambermaid or doxy.”
“What letter?” Aramis asked eagerly.
“A letter which was delivered at your lodgings in your absence and which I picked up there.”
“A letter from whom?”
“Oh, from some heartbroken servant wench or some despondent light-of-love in a garrison town. It might even come from no less a personage than the chambermaid of the Duchesse de Chevreuse. I can easily imagine the soubrette having to return to Tours with the Duchess and, to appear smart, pilfering some of her mistress’s scented note paper and sealing her letter with a duchess’s coronet.”
“What in the world—?”
“Confound it, I think I must have lost that letter,” D’Artagnan said maliciously as he pretended to search for it. “But no matter! Happily the world is a sepulchre, men and consequently women are but shadows, and love is a lure which you spurn.”
“D’Artagnan, D’Artagnan, please! You are killing me! Put me out of my misery!”
“Well, here is the letter at last!” D’Artagnan said blithely. “I don’t know how I could have misplaced it.”
Aramis sprang up, seized the letter and proceeded to read or rather to devour it, his face radiant.
“I dare say the gay chambermaid has a cheery style!” D’Artagnan observed nonchalantly.
“Oh, thank you, D’Artagnan, thank you!” Aramis cried in a delirium of joy. “She was forced to return to Tours . . . she is not unfaithful to me . . . she loves me still. . . . Come, my dear friend, let me embrace you. I am overwhelmed with sheer, rapturous happiness.”
In their animal exuberance the pair began to dance around the venerable volume of Saint Chrysostom, which presently fell to the floor. The pages of the thesis were close to the toes of the dancers, so what should they do but trample them underfoot or kick them like so many footballs? At that moment Bazin entered with omelette and spinach.
“Away with you, wretch!” Aramis shouted, flinging his theological cap in the lackey’s face. “Go back where you came from. And for God’s sake, remove those ghastly greens and those putrid eggs instanter! Order a well-larded hare, a fat capon, a leg of mutton rich