“Bah!” said the musketeer, laughing, “and do we write no more poems now, either?”
“Oh! D’Artagnan,” exclaimed Aramis, “I have long ago given up all such tomfoolery.”
“True,” repeated D’Artagnan, only half convinced. As for Percerin, he was once more absorbed in contemplation of the brocades.
“Don’t you perceive,” said Aramis, smiling, “that we are greatly boring this good gentleman, my dear D’Artagnan?”
“Ah! ah!” murmured the musketeer, aside; “that is, I am boring you, my friend.” Then aloud, “Well, then, let us leave; I have no further business here, and if you are as disengaged as I, Aramis—”
“No, not I—I wished—”
“Ah! you had something particular to say to M. Percerin? Why did you not tell me so at once?”
“Something particular, certainly,” repeated Aramis, “but not for you, D’Artagnan. But, at the same time, I hope you will believe that I can never have anything so particular to say that a friend like you may not hear it.”
“Oh, no, no! I am going,” said D’Artagnan, imparting to his voice an evident tone of curiosity; for Aramis’s annoyance, well dissembled as it was, had not a whit escaped him; and he knew that, in that impenetrable mind, every thing, even the most apparently trivial, was designed to some end; an unknown one, but an end that, from the knowledge he had of his friend’s character, the musketeer felt must be important.
On his part, Aramis saw that D’Artagnan was not without suspicion, and pressed him. “Stay, by all means,” he said, “this is what it is.” Then turning towards the tailor, “My dear Percerin,” said he,—“I am even very happy that you are here, D’Artagnan.”