“Well, and you must have been satisfied,” said Aramis.

“So, so.”

“How is that?”

“Yes, Porthos said hush! and you — "

“Well! and I?”

“And you gave me your benediction.”

“What would you have, my friend?” said Aramis, smiling; “that is the most precious thing that a poor prelate, like me, has to give.”

“Indeed, my dear friend!”

“Doubtless.”

“And yet they say at Paris that the bishopric of Vannes is one of the best in France.”

“Ah! you are now speaking of temporal wealth,” said Aramis, with a careless air.

“To be sure, I wish to speak of that; I hold by it, on my part.”

“In that case, let me speak of it,” said Aramis, with a smile.

“You own yourself to be one of the richest prelates in France?”

“My friend, since you ask me to give you an account, I will tell you that the bishopric of Vannes is worth about twenty thousand livres a year, neither more nor less.  It is a diocese which contains a hundred and sixty parishes.”

“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 old 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.

“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.