“And you say, then, you came to Belle-Isle?” said Aramis, without transition.
“Yes,” replied D’Artagnan; “I knew I should find you and Porthos there.”
“Find me!” cried Aramis. “Me! for the last year past I have not once crossed the sea.”
“Oh,” said D’Artagnan, “I should never have supposed you such a housekeeper.”
“Ah, dear friend, I must tell you that I am no longer the Aramis of former times. Riding on horseback is unpleasant to me; the sea fatigues me. I am a poor, ailing priest, always complaining, always grumbling, and inclined to the austerities which appear to accord with old age,—preliminary parleyings with death. I linger, my dear D’Artagnan, I linger.”
“Well, that is all the better, my friend, for we shall probably be neighbors soon.”
“Bah!” said Aramis with a degree of surprise he did not even seek to dissemble. “You my neighbor!”
“Mordioux! yes.”
“How so?”
“I am about to purchase some very profitable salt-mines, which are situated between Piriac and Le Croisic. Imagine, my dear friend, a clear profit of twelve per cent. Never any deficiency, never any idle expenses; the ocean, faithful and regular, brings every twelve hours its contingency to my coffers. I am the first Parisian who has dreamt of such a speculation. Do not say anything about it, I beg of you, and in a short time we will communicate on the matter. I am to have three leagues of country for thirty thousand livres.”