“But, my Reverend—” replied Aramis, a little amazed by the shower of arguments that poured upon his head.
“How will you prove,” continued the Jesuit, without allowing him time to speak, “that we ought to regret the world when we offer ourselves to God? Listen to this dilemma: God is God, and the world is the devil. To regret the world is to regret the devil; that is my conclusion.”
“And that is mine also,” said the curate.
“But, for heaven’s sake—” resumed Aramis.
“Desideras diabolum, unhappy man!” cried the Jesuit.
“He regrets the devil! Ah, my young friend,” added the curate, groaning, “do not regret the devil, I implore you!”
D’Artagnan felt himself bewildered. It seemed to him as though he were in a madhouse, and was becoming as mad as those he saw. He was, however, forced to hold his tongue from not comprehending half the language they employed.
“But listen to me, then,” resumed Aramis with politeness mingled with a little impatience. “I do not say I regret; no, I will never pronounce that sentence, which would not be orthodox.”
The Jesuit raised his hands toward heaven, and the curate did the same.
“No; but pray grant me that it is acting with an ill grace to offer to the Lord only that with which we are perfectly disgusted! Don’t you think so, D’Artagnan?”