“What is it?” asked D’Artagnan, who did not at all comprehend the hilarity of his friend.
“Nothing, nothing! Go on!”
“Your advice, then?”
“To take the hundred pistoles, D’Artagnan. With the hundred pistoles we can live well to the end of the month. We have undergone a great deal of fatigue, remember, and a little rest will do no harm.”
“I rest? Oh, no, Athos. Once in Paris, I shall prosecute my search for that unfortunate woman!”
“Well, you may be assured that your horse will not be half so serviceable to you for that purpose as good golden louis. Take the hundred pistoles, my friend; take the hundred pistoles!”
D’Artagnan only required one reason to be satisfied. This last reason appeared convincing. Besides, he feared that by resisting longer he should appear selfish in the eyes of Athos. He acquiesced, therefore, and chose the hundred pistoles, which the Englishman paid down on the spot.
They then determined to depart. Peace with the landlord, in addition to Athos’s old horse, cost six pistoles. D’Artagnan and Athos took the nags of Planchet and Grimaud, and the two lackeys started on foot, carrying the saddles on their heads.
However ill our two friends were mounted, they were soon far in advance of their servants, and arrived at Crèvecœur. From a distance they perceived Aramis, seated in a melancholy manner at his window, looking out, like Sister Anne, at the dust in the horizon.
“Holà, Aramis! What the devil are you doing there?” cried the two friends.