“And this man, who would shed every drop of blood in his veins for me, will not open up before me the least corner in his heart. Friendship, I repeat, is nothing but an unsubstantial shadow—a lure, like everything else in this bright, dazzling world.”
“It is not thus you should speak of our friendship,” replied the bishop, in a firm, assured voice; “for ours is not of the same nature as those of which you have been speaking.”
“Look at us, Aramis; three out of the old ‘four.’ You are deceiving me; I suspect you; and Porthos is fast asleep. An admirable trio of friends, don’t you think so? What an affecting relic of the former dear old times!”
“I can only tell you one thing, D’Artagnan, and I swear it on the Bible: I love you just as I used to do. If I ever suspect you, it is on account of others, and not on account of either of us. In everything I may do, and should happen to succeed in, you will find your fourth. Will you promise me the same favor?”
“If I am not mistaken, Aramis, your words—at the moment you pronounce them—are full of generous feeling.”
“Such a thing is very possible.”
“You are conspiring against M. Colbert. If that be all, mordioux, tell me so at once. I have the instrument in my own hand, and will pull out the tooth easily enough.”
Aramis could not conceal a smile of disdain that flitted over his haughty features. “And supposing that I were conspiring against Colbert, what harm would there be in that?”
“No, no; that would be too trifling a matter for you to take in hand, and it was not on that account you asked Percerin for those patterns of the king’s costumes. Oh! Aramis, we are not enemies, remember—we are brothers. Tell me what you wish to undertake, and, upon the word of a D’Artagnan, if I cannot help you, I will swear to remain neuter.”
“I am undertaking nothing,” said Aramis.