“My dear Bazin, you ought to perceive,” said D’Artagnan, “from the place in which you find me, that I am greatly changed in everything.  Age produces good sense, and, as I doubt not but that your master is on the road to salvation, I want you to tell me where he is, that he may help me to mine.”

“Rather say, to take him back with you into the world.  Fortunately, I don’t know where he is.”

“How!” cried D’Artagnan; “you don’t know where Aramis is?”

“Formerly,” replied Bazin, “Aramis was his name of perdition.  By Aramis is meant Simara, which is the name of a demon.  Happily for him he has ceased to bear that name.”

“And therefore,” said D’Artagnan, resolved to be patient to the end, “it is not Aramis I seek, but the Abbe d’Herblay.  Come, my dear Bazin, tell me where he is.”

“Didn’t you hear me tell you, Monsieur d’Artagnan, that I don’t know where he is?”

“Yes, certainly; but to that I answer that it is impossible.”

“It is, nevertheless, the truth, monsieur —­ the pure truth, the truth of the good God.”

D’Artagnan saw clearly that he would get nothing out of this man, who was evidently telling a falsehood in his pretended ignorance of the abode of Aramis, but whose lies were bold and decided.

“Well, Bazin,” said D’Artagnan, “since you do not know where your master lives, let us speak of it no more; let us part good friends.  Accept this half-pistole to drink to my health.”

“I do not drink” —­ Bazin pushed away with dignity the officer’s hand —­ “’tis good only for the laity.”

“Incorruptible!” murmured D’Artagnan; “I am unlucky;” and whilst he was lost in thought Bazin retreated toward the sacristy, and even there he could not think himself safe until he had shut and locked the door behind him.

D’Artagnan was still in deep thought when some one touched him on the shoulder.  He turned and was about to utter an exclamation of surprise when the other made to him a sign of silence.

“You here, Rochefort?” he said, in a low voice.

“Hush!” returned Rochefort.  “Did you know that I am at liberty?”

“I knew it from the fountain-head —­ from Planchet.  And what brought you here?”

“I came to thank God for my happy deliverance,” said Rochefort.

“And nothing more?  I suppose that is not all.”

“To take my orders from the coadjutor and to see if we cannot wake up Mazarin a little.”

“A bad plan; you’ll be shut up again in the Bastile.”

“Oh, as to that, I shall take care, I assure you.  The air, the fresh, free air is so good; besides,” and Rochefort drew a deep breath as he spoke, “I am going into the country to make a tour.”

“Stop,” cried D’Artagnan; “I, too, am going.”

“And if I may without impertinence ask —­ where are you going?”

“To seek my friends.”

“What friends?”