“Zounds!” cried Aramis, “I may have done some good; so, my lord, deign to receive my most respectful homage! I will lay a wager that ’twas that Saint Christopher, Porthos, who performed this feat! Apropos! I forgot——” and he gave some orders in a low voice to one of the horsemen.
“I think it will be wise to set off,” said D’Artagnan.
“Yes; but I am expecting some one, a friend of Athos.”
“A friend!” exclaimed the count.
“And here he comes, by Jupiter! galloping through the bushes.”
“The count! the count!” cried a young voice that made Athos start.
“Raoul! Raoul!” he ejaculated.
For one moment the young man forgot his habitual respect—he threw himself on his father’s neck.
“Look, my lord cardinal,” said Aramis, “would it not have been a pity to have separated men who love each other as we love? Gentlemen,” he continued, addressing the cavaliers, who became more and more numerous every instant; “gentlemen, encircle his eminence, that you may show him the greater honor. He will, indeed give us the favor of his company; you will, I hope, be grateful for it; Porthos, do not lose sight of his eminence.”
Aramis then joined Athos and D’Artagnan, who were consulting together.