“Yes, rich for me; not for you or Porthos, understand. I have an income of about fifteen thousand livres.”
Aramis looked at him suspiciously. He could not believe—particularly on seeing his friend in such humble guise—that he had made so fine a fortune. Then D’Artagnan, seeing that the hour of explanations was come, related the history of his English adventures. During the recital he saw, ten times, the eyes of the prelate sparkle, and his slender fingers work convulsively. As to Porthos, it was not admiration he manifested for D’Artagnan; it was enthusiasm, it was delirium. When D’Artagnan had finished, “Well!” said Aramis.
“Well!” said D’Artagnan, “you see, then, I have in England friends and property, in France a treasure. If your heart tells you so, I offer them to you. That is what I came here for.”
However firm was his look, he could not this time support the look of Aramis. He allowed, therefore, his eye to stray upon Porthos—like the sword which yields to too powerful a pressure, and seeks another road.
“At all events,” said the bishop, “you have assumed a singular traveling costume, old friend.”
“Frightful! I know it is. You may understand why I would not travel as a cavalier or a noble; since I became rich, I am miserly.”
“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.”