LITMIR.BIZ

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“Let’s see. Canst thou speak any patois?”

      “I can do something better than that, sir, I can speak Flemish.”

      “Where the devil didst thou learn it?”

      “In Artois, where I fought for years. Listen, sir. Goeden morgen, mynheer, eth teen begeeray le weeten the ge sond heets omstand.”

      “Which means?”

      “Good-day, sir! I am anxious to know the state of your health.”

      “He calls that a language! But never mind, that will do capitally.”

      D’Artagnan opened the door and called out to a waiter to desire Madeleine to come upstairs.

      When the landlady made her appearance she expressed much astonishment at seeing Planchet.

      “My dear landlady,” said D’Artagnan, “I beg to introduce to you your brother, who is arrived from Flanders and whom I am going to take into my service.”

      “My brother?”

      “Wish your sister good-morning, Master Peter.”

      “Wilkom, suster,” said Planchet.

      “Goeden day, broder,” replied the astonished landlady.

      “This is the case,” said D’Artagnan; “this is your brother, Madeleine; you don’t know him perhaps, but I know him; he has arrived from Amsterdam. You must dress him up during my absence. When I return, which will be in about an hour, you must offer him to me as a servant, and upon your recommendation, though he doesn’t speak a word of French, I take him into my service. You understand?”

      “That is to say, I guess your wishes, and that is all that’s necessary,” said Madeleine.

      “You are a precious creature, my pretty hostess, and I am much obliged to you.”

      The next moment D’Artagnan was on his way to Notre Dame.

      7. Touches upon the Strange Effects a Half-pistole may have

      D’Artagnan, as he crossed the Pont Neuf, congratulated himself on having found Planchet again, for at that time an intelligent servant was essential to him; nor was he sorry that through Planchet and the situation which he held in Rue des Lombards, a connection with the bourgeoisie might be commenced, at that critical period when that class were preparing to make war with the court party. It was like having a spy in the enemy’s camp. In this frame of mind, grateful for the accidental meeting with Planchet, pleased with himself, D’Artagnan reached Notre Dame. He ran up the steps, entered the church, and addressing a verger who was sweeping the chapel, asked him if he knew Monsieur Bazin.

      “Monsieur Bazin, the beadle?” said the verger. “Yes. There he is, attending mass, in the chapel of the Virgin.”

      D’Artagnan nearly jumped for joy; he had despaired of finding Bazin, but now, he thought, since he held one end of the thread he would be pretty sure to reach the other end.

      He knelt down just opposite the chapel in order not to lose sight of his man; and as he had almost forgotten his prayers and had omitted to take a book with him, he made use of his time in gazing at Bazin.

      Bazin wore his dress, it may be observed, with equal dignity and saintly propriety. It was not difficult to understand that he had gained the crown of his ambition and that the silver-mounted wand he brandished was in his eyes as honorable a distinction as the marshal’s baton which Conde threw, or did not throw, into the enemy’s line of battle at Fribourg. His person had undergone a change, analogous to the change in his dress; his figure had grown rotund and, as it were, canonical. The striking points of his face were effaced; he had still a nose, but his cheeks, fattened out, each took a portion of it unto themselves; his chin had joined his throat; his eyes were swelled up with the puffiness of his cheeks; his hair, cut straight in holy guise, covered his forehead as far as his eyebrows.

      The officiating priest was just finishing mass whilst D’Artagnan was looking at Bazin; he pronounced the words of the holy Sacrament and retired, giving the benediction, which was received by the kneeling communicants, to the astonishment of D’Artagnan, who recognized in the priest the coadjutor4 himself, the famous Jean Francois Gondy, who at that time, having a presentiment of the part he was to play, was beginning to court popularity by almsgiving. It was to this end that he performed from time to time some of those early masses which the common people, generally, alone attended.

      D’Artagnan knelt as well as the rest, received his share of the benediction and made the sign of the cross; but when Bazin passed in his turn, with his eyes raised to Heaven and walking, in all humility, the very last, D’Artagnan pulled him by the hem of his robe.

      Bazin looked down and started, as if he had seen a serpent.

      “Monsieur d’Artagnan!” he cried; “Vade retro Satanas!”

      “So, my dear Bazin!” said the officer, laughing, “this is the way you receive an old friend.”

      “Sir,” replied Bazin, “the true friends of a Christian are those who aid him in working out his salvation, not those who hinder him in doing so.”

      “I don’t understand you, Bazin; nor can I see how I can be a stumbling-block in the way of your salvation,” said D’Artagnan.

      “You forget, sir, that you very nearly ruined forever that of my master; and that it was owing to you that he was very nearly being damned eternally for remaining a musketeer, whilst all the time his true vocation was the church.”

      “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

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