“To be sure, I wish to speak of that; I hold by it, on my part.”
“In that case, let me speak of it,” said Aramis, with a smile.
“You own yourself to be one of the richest prelates in France?”
“My friend, since you ask me to give you an account, I will tell you that the bishopric of Vannes is worth about twenty thousand livres a year, neither more nor less. It is a diocese which contains a hundred and sixty parishes.”
“That is very pretty,” said D’Artagnan.
“It is superb!” said Porthos.
“And yet,” resumed D’Artagnan, throwing his eyes over Aramis, “you don’t mean to bury yourself here forever?”
“Pardon me. Only I do not admit the word bury.”
“But it seems to me, that at this distance from Paris a man is buried, or nearly so.”
“My friend, I am getting old,” said Aramis; “the noise and bustle of a city no longer suit me. At fifty-seven we ought to seek calm and meditation. I have found them here. What is there more beautiful, and stern at the same time, than this old Armorica. I find here, dear D’Artagnan, all that is opposite to what I formerly loved, and that is what must happen at the end of life, which is opposite to the beginning. A little of my old pleasure of former times still comes to salute me here, now and then, without diverting me from the road of salvation. I am still of this world, and yet every step that I take brings me nearer to God.”