The Three Musketeers (Translated by Richard Pevear) - Alexandre Dumas [143]
“Forever and ever. You are my friend today, tomorrow you will be no more than a shade for me; or, rather, you won’t exist at all. As for the world, it is nothing but a grave.”
“Devil take it! It’s awfully sad what you’re telling me.”
“What do you want! My vocation draws me, it bears me away!”
D’Artagnan smiled and did not reply. Aramis went on:
“And yet, while I still hold to the earth, I would have liked to talk with you, about you, about our friends.”
“And I,” said d’Artagnan, “I would have liked to talk with you about yourself, but I see you so detached from everything. You say fie to love, your friends are shades, the world is a grave.”
“Alas, you see it yourself!” Aramis said with a sigh.
“Then let us speak no more of it,” said d’Artagnan, “and let us burn this letter, which doubtless informs you of some new infidelity of your seamstress or your chambermaid.”
“What letter?” Aramis cried sharply.
“A letter that came for you in your absence and that was given to me for you.”
“But who is the letter from?”
“Oh, from some tearful maid, some seamstress in despair—Mme de Chevreuse’s chambermaid perhaps, who was obliged to return to Tours with her mistress, and who, to make herself elegant, must have stolen some scented paper and sealed her letter with a duchess’s coronet.”
“What are you saying?”
“Wait, I must have lost it!” the young man said slyly, pretending to search himself. “Fortunately, the world is a grave, men—and consequently women—are shades, and love is a sentiment you say fie to!”
“D’Artagnan, d’Artagnan!” cried Aramis, “you’re killing me!”
“Ah, here it is after all!” said d’Artagnan.
And he pulled the letter from his pocket.
Aramis leaped over, seized the letter, read or rather devoured it. His face shone.
“It seems the maid has a pretty style,” the messenger said nonchalantly.
“Thanks, d’Artagnan!” cried Aramis, almost in delirium. “She was forced to return to Tours. She’s not unfaithful to me, she loves me still. Come here, my friend, come here till I embrace you. I’m choking with happiness!”
And the two friends started dancing around the venerable St. Chrysostom, boldly trampling on the pages of the thesis, which had slipped to the floor.
At that moment, Bazin came in with the spinach and the omelette.
“Away, wretch!” cried Aramis, throwing his calotte in his face. “Go back where you came from, take away these horrible vegetables and that frightful concoction! Order us a stuffed hare, a fat capon, a leg of lamb with garlic, and four bottles of old burgundy.”
Bazin, who gazed at his master and was quite unable to understand this change, let the omelette slide sadly into the spinach, and the spinach onto the floor.
“This is the moment for consecrating our existence to the King of Kings,” said d’Artagnan, “if you insist on doing him a courtesy: Non inutile desiderium in oblatione.”
“Go to the devil with your Latin! My dear d’Artagnan, let’s have a drink, morbleu, a cool drink, a big drink, and tell me a little of what’s going on out there.”
XXVII
THE WIFE OF ATHOS
“It remains now to have news of Athos,” d’Artagnan said to the high-spirited Aramis, when he had brought him up to date on what had gone on in the capital since their departure, and an excellent dinner had made the one forget his thesis and the other his fatigue.
“So you think something bad may have happened to him?” asked Aramis. “Athos is so coolheaded, so brave, and handles his sword so well.”
“Yes, of course, and no one acknowledges his courage and skill more readily than I do, but I like the shock of lances on my sword better than the shock of sticks. I’m afraid Athos may have been trounced by the flunkeys. Valets are the sort that strike hard and don’t quit early. That, I admit to you, is why I’d like set off again as soon as possible.”
“I’ll try to go with you,” said Aramis, “though I hardly feel up to mounting a horse. Yesterday I tried out the discipline you see hanging on the wall there, and the pain kept me from continuing that pious exercise.”
“Then again, my dear friend,