Aramis continued, “And yet, while I do belong to the earth, I wish to speak of you—of our friends.”
“And on my part,” said D’Artagnan, “I wished to speak of you, but I find you so completely detached from everything! To love you cry, ‘Fie! Friends are shadows! The world is a sepulcher!’”
“Alas, you will find it so yourself,” said Aramis, with a sigh.
“Well, then, let us say no more about it,” said D’Artagnan; “and let us burn this letter, which, no doubt, announces to you some fresh infidelity of your grisette or your chambermaid.”
“What letter?” cried Aramis, eagerly.
“A letter which was sent to your abode in your absence, and which was given to me for you.”
“But from whom is that letter?”
“Oh, from some heartbroken waiting woman, some desponding grisette; from Madame de Chevreuse’s chambermaid, perhaps, who was obliged to return to Tours with her mistress, and who, in order to appear smart and attractive, stole some perfumed paper, and sealed her letter with a duchess’s coronet.”
“What do you say?”
“Hold! I must have lost it,” said the young man maliciously, pretending to search for it. “But fortunately the world is a sepulcher; the men, and consequently the women, are but shadows, and love is a sentiment to which you cry, ‘Fie! Fie!’”