“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 odd 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.”
“Eloquent, wise and discreet; you are an accomplished prelate, Aramis, and I offer you my congratulations.”
“But,” said Aramis, smiling, “you did not come here only for the purpose of paying me compliments. Speak; what brings you hither! May it be that, in some fashion or other, you want me?”
“Thank God, no, my friend,” said D’Artagnan, “it is nothing of that kind.—I am rich and free.”
“Rich!” exclaimed Aramis.