“Did my people not find you, my dear D’Artagnan?” cried he, as soon as he caught sight of the musketeer.
“No; did you send any one after me?”
“I am deeply concerned, my friend, deeply, to have induced you to make such a useless search; but, about seven o’clock, the almoner of Saint-Patern came here. He had met Du Vallon, who was going away, and who, being unwilling to disturb anybody at the palace, had charged him to tell me that, fearing M. Getard would play him some ill turn in his absence, he was going to take advantage of the morning tide to make a tour of Belle-Isle.”
“But tell me, Goliath has not crossed the four leagues of sea, I should think.”
“There are full six,” said Aramis.
“That makes it less probable still.”
“Therefore, my friend,” said Aramis, with one of his blandest smiles, “Goliath is in the stable, well pleased, I will answer for it, that Porthos is no longer on his back.” In fact, the horse had been brought back from the relay by the direction of the prelate, from whom no detail escaped. D’Artagnan appeared as well satisfied with as possible with the explanation. He entered upon a part of dissimulation which agreed perfectly with the suspicions that arose more strongly in his mind. He breakfasted between the Jesuit and Aramis, having the Dominican in front of him, and smiling particularly at the Dominican, whose jolly, fat face pleased him much. The repast was long and sumptuous; excellent Spanish wine, fine Morbihan oysters, exquisite fish from the mouth of the Loire, enormous prawns from Paimboeuf, and delicious game from the moors, constituted the principal part of it. D’Artagnan ate much, and drank but little. Aramis drank nothing, unless it was water. After the repast,—
“You offered me an arquebus,” said D’Artagnan.
“I did.”
“Lend it me, then.”