CHAPTER 71
A Procession at Vannes
The passage from Belle-Isle to Sarzeau was made rapidly
enough, thanks to one of those little corsairs of which
D'Artagnan had been told during his voyage, and which,
shaped for fast sailing and destined for the chase, were
sheltered at that time in the roadstead of Loc-Maria, where
one of them, with a quarter of its war-crew, performed duty
between Belle-Isle and the continent. D'Artagnan had an
opportunity of convincing himself that Porthos, though
engineer and topographer, was not deeply versed in affairs
of state. His perfect ignorance, with any other, might have
passed for well-informed dissimulation. But D'Artagnan knew
too well all the folds and refolds of his Porthos, not to
find a secret if there were one there; like those regular,
minute old bachelors, who know how to find, with their eyes
shut, each book on the shelves of their library and each
piece of linen in their wardrobe. So if he had found
nothing, our cunning D'Artagnan, in rolling and unrolling
his Porthos, it was because, in truth, there was nothing to
be found.
"Be it so," said D'Artagnan, "I shall get to know more at
Vannes in half an hour than Porthos has discovered at
Belle-Isle in two months. Only, in order that I may know
something, it is important that Porthos should not make use
of the only stratagem I leave at his disposal. He must not
warn Aramis of my arrival." All the care of the musketeer
was then, for the moment, confined to the watching of
Porthos. And let us hasten to say, Porthos did not deserve
all this mistrust. Porthos thought of no evil. Perhaps, on
first seeing him, D'Artagnan had inspired him with a little
suspicion, but almost immediately D'Artagnan had reconquered
in that good and brave heart the place he had always
occupied, and not the least cloud darkened the large eye of
Porthos, fixed from time to time with tenderness on his
friend.
On landing, Porthos inquired if his horses were waiting, and
soon perceived them at the crossing of the road that winds
round Sarzeau, and which, without passing through that
little city, leads towards Vannes. These horses were two in
number, one for M. de Vallon, and one for his equerry; for
Porthos had an equerry since Mouston was only able to use a
carriage as a means of locomotion. D'Artagnan expected that
Porthos would propose to send forward his equerry upon one
horse to bring back another, and he -- D'Artagnan -- had
made up his mind to oppose this proposition. But nothing
D'Artagnan had expected happened. Porthos simply told the
equerry to dismount and await his return at Sarzeau, whilst
D'Artagnan would ride his horse; which was arranged.
"Eh! but you are quite a man of precaution, my dear
Porthos," said D'Artagnan to his friend, when he found
himself in the saddle, upon the equerry's horse.
"Yes, but this is a kindness on the part of Aramis. I have
not my stud here, and Aramis has placed his stables at my
disposal."
"Good horses for bishop's horses, mordioux!" said
D'Artagnan. "It is true, Aramis is a bishop of a peculiar
kind."
"He is a holy man!" replied Porthos, in a tone almost nasal,
and with his eyes raised towards heaven.
"Then he is much changed," said D'Artagnan; "you and I have
known him passably profane."
"Grace has touched him," said Porthos.
"Bravo," said D'Artagnan, "that redoubles my desire to see
my dear old friend." And he spurred his horse, which sprang
off into a more rapid pace.
"Peste!" said Porthos, "if we go on at this rate, we shall
only take one hour instead of two."
"To go how far, do you say, Porthos?"
"Four leagues and a half."
"That will be a good pace."
"I could have embarked you on the canal, but the devil take
rowers and boat-horses! The first are like tortoises; the
second like snails; and when a man is able to put a good
horse between his knees, that horse is better than rowers or
any other means."
"You are right; you above all, Porthos, who always look
magnificent on horseback."
"Rather heavy, my friend; I was weighed the other day."
"And what do you weigh?"
"Three hundred-weight!" said Porthos, proudly.
"Bravo!"
"So that you must perceive, I am forced to choose horses
whose loins are straight and wide, otherwise I break them
down in two hours."
"Yes, giant's horses you must have, must you not?"
"You are very polite, my friend," replied the engineer, with
affectionate majesty.
"As a case in point," replied D'Artagnan, "your horse seems
to sweat already."
"Dame! It is hot! Ah, ah! do you see Vannes now?"
"Yes, perfectly. It is a handsome city, apparently."
"Charming, according to Aramis, at least, but I think it
black; but black seems to be considered handsome by artists:
I am sorry for it."
"Why so, Porthos?"
"Because I have lately had my chateau of Pierrefonds which
was gray with age, plastered white."
"Humph!" said D'Artagnan, "and white is more cheerful."
"Yes, but it is less august, as Aramis tells me. Fortunately
there are dealers in black as well as white. I will have
Pierrefonds replastered in black; that's all there is about
it. If gray is handsome, you understand, my friend, black
must be superb."
"Dame!" said D'Artagnan, "that appears logical."
"Were you never at Vannes, D'Artagnan?"
"Never."
"Then you know nothing of the city?"
"Nothing."
"Well, look!" said Porthos, raising himself in his stirrups,
which made the fore-quarters of his horse bend sadly -- "do
you see that corner, in the sun, yonder?"
"Yes, I see it plainly."
"Well, that is the cathedral."
"Which is called?"
"Saint-Pierre. Now look again -- in the faubourg on the
left, do you see another cross?"
"Perfectly well."
"That is Saint-Paterne, the parish preferred by Aramis."
"Indeed!"
"Without doubt. Saint-Paterne, you see, passes for having
been the first bishop of Vannes. It is true that Aramis
pretends he was not. But he is so learned that that may be
only a paro -- a para ---"
"A paradox," said D'Artagnan.
"Precisely; thank you! my tongue trips, I am so hot."
"My friend," said D'Artagnan, "continue your interesting
description, I beg. What is that large white building with
many windows?"
"Oh! that is the college of the Jesuits. Pardieu! you have
an apt hand. Do you see, close to the college, a large house
with steeples, turrets, built in a handsome Gothic style, as
that fool, M. Getard, says?"
"Yes, that is plainly to be seen. Well?"
"Well, that is where Aramis resides."
"What! does he not reside at the episcopal palace?"
"No, that is in ruins. The palace likewise is in the city,
and Aramis prefers the faubourgs. That is why, as I told
you, he is partial to Saint-Paterne; Saint-Paterne is in the
faubourg. Besides, there are in this faubourg a mall, a
tennis-court, and a house of Dominicans. Look, that where
the handsome steeple rises to the heavens."
"Well?"
"Next, you see the faubourg is like a separate city, it has
its walls, its towers, its ditches; the quay is upon it
likewise, and the boats land at the quay. If our little
corsair did not draw eight feet of water, we could have come
full sail up to Aramis's windows."
"Porthos, Porthos," cried D'Artagnan, "you are a well of
knowledge, a spring of ingenious and profound reflections.
Porthos, you no longer surprise me, you confound me."
"Here we are," said Porthos, turning the conversation with
his usual modesty.
"And high time we were," thought D'Artagnan, "for Aramis's
horse is melting away like a steed of ice."
They entered almost at the same instant the faubourg; but
scarcely had they gone a hundred paces when they were
surprised to find the streets strewed with leaves and
flowers. Against the old walls of Vannes hung the oldest and
the strangest tapestries of France. From over balconies fell
long white sheets stuck all over with bouquets. The streets
were deserted; it was plain the entire population was
assembled on one point. The blinds were closed, and the
breeze penetrated into the houses under the hangings, which
cast long, black shades between their places of issue and
the walls. Suddenly, at the turning of a street, chants
struck the ears of the newly arrived travelers. A crowd in
holiday garb appeared through the vapors of incense which
mounted to the heavens in blue fleeces, and clouds of
rose-leaves fluttered as high as the first stories. Above
all heads were to be seen the cross and banners, the sacred
symbols of religion. Then, beneath these crosses and
banners, as if protected by them, walked a whole world of
young girls clothed in white, crowned with corn-flowers. At
the two sides of the street, inclosing the cortege, marched
the guards of the garrison, carrying bouquets in the barrels
of their muskets and on the points of their lances. This was
the procession.
Whilst D'Artagnan and Porthos were looking on with critical
glances, which disguised an extreme impatience to get
forward, a magnificent dais approached preceded by a hundred
Jesuits and a hundred Dominicans, and escorted by two
archdeacons, a treasurer, a penitent and twelve canons. A
singer with a thundering voice -- a man certainly picked out
from all the voices of France, as was the drum-major of the
imperial guard from all the giants of the empire -- escorted
by four other chanters, who appeared to be there only to
serve him as an accompaniment, made the air resound, and the
windows of the houses vibrate. Under the dais appeared a
pale and noble countenance with black eyes, black hair
streaked with threads of white, a delicate, compressed
mouth, a prominent and angular chin. His head, full of
graceful majesty, was covered with the episcopal mitre, a
headdress which gave it, in addition to the character of
sovereignty, that of asceticism and evangelic meditation.
"Aramis!" cried the musketeer, involuntarily, as this lofty
countenance passed before him. The prelate started at the
sound of the voice. He raised his large black eyes, with
their long lashes, and turned them without hesitation
towards the spot whence the exclamation proceeded. At a
glance, he saw Porthos and D'Artagnan close to him. On his
part, D'Artagnan, thanks to the keenness of his sight, had
seen all, seized all. The full portrait of the prelate had
entered his memory, never to leave it. One thing had
particularly struck D'Artagnan. On perceiving him, Aramis
had colored, then he had concentrated under his eyelids the
fire of the look of the master, and the indefinable
affection of the friend. It was evident that Aramis had
asked himself this question: -- "Why is D'Artagnan with
Porthos, and what does he want at Vannes?" Aramis
comprehended all that was passing in the mind of D'Artagnan,
on turning his look upon him again, and seeing that he had
not lowered his eyes. He knew the acuteness and intelligence
of his friend, he feared to let him divine the secret of his
blush and his astonishment. He was still the same Aramis,
always having a secret to conceal. Therefore, to put an end
to his look of an inquisitor which it was necessary to get
rid of at all events, as, at any price, a general
extinguishes a battery which annoys him, Aramis stretched
forth his beautiful white hand, upon which sparkled the
amethyst of the pastoral ring; he cut the air with sign of
the cross, and poured out his benediction upon his two
friends. Perhaps thoughtful and absent, D'Artagnan, impious
in spite of himself, might not have bent beneath this holy
benediction; but Porthos saw his distraction, and laying his
friendly hand upon the back of his companion, he crushed him
down towards the earth. D'Artagnan was forced to give way;
indeed, he was little short of being flat on the ground. In
the meantime Aramis had passed. D'Artagnan, like Antaeus,
had only touched the ground, and he turned towards Porthos,
almost angry. But there was no mistaking the intention of
the brave Hercules; it was a feeling of religious propriety
that had influenced him. Besides, speech with Porthos,
instead of disguising his thought, always completed it.
"It is very polite of him," said he, "to have given his
benediction to us alone. Decidedly, he is a holy man, and a
brave man." Less convinced than Porthos, D'Artagnan made no
reply.
"Observe, my friend," continued Porthos, "he has seen us;
and, instead of continuing to walk on at the simple pace of
the procession, as he did just now, -- see, what a hurry he
is in; do you see how the cortege is increasing its speed?
He is eager to join us and embrace us, is that dear Aramis."
"That is true," replied D'Artagnan, aloud. -- Then to
himself: -- "It is equally true he has seen me, the fox, and
will have time to prepare himself to receive me."
But the procession had passed; the road was free. D'Artagnan
and Porthos walked straight up to the episcopal palace,
which was surrounded by a numerous crowd anxious to see the
prelate return. D'Artagnan remarked that this crowd was
composed principally of citizens and military men. He
recognized in the nature of these partisans the address of
his friend. Aramis was not the man to seek for a useless
popularity. He cared very little for being beloved by people
who could be of no service to him. Women, children, and old
men, that is to say, the cortege of ordinary pastors, was
not the cortege for him.
Ten minutes after the two friends had passed the threshold
of the palace, Aramis returned like a triumphant conqueror;
the soldiers presented arms to him as to a superior; the
citizens bowed to him as to a friend and a patron, rather
than as a head of the Church. There was something in Aramis
resembling those Roman senators who had their doors always
surrounded by clients. At the foot of the prison, he had a
conference of half a minute with a Jesuit, who, in order to
speak to him more secretly, passed his head under the dais.
He then re-entered his palace; the doors closed slowly, and
the crowd melted away, whilst chants and prayers were still
resounding abroad. It was a magnificent day. Earthly
perfumes were mingled with the perfumes of the air and the
sea. The city breathed happiness, joy, and strength.
D'Artagnan felt something like the presence of an invisible
hand which had, all-powerfully, created this strength, this
joy, this happiness, and spread everywhere these perfumes.
"Oh! oh!" said he, "Porthos has got fat; but Aramis is grown
taller."
