Chapter 32 - Page 2

house of France.”

“Oh! ask that of Aramis,” replied Athos, coolly.

“Of Aramis!” cried the musketeer, quite at a stand. “Have you seen Aramis?”

“After his discomfiture at Vaux, yes. I have seen Aramis, a fugitive, pursued, ruined; and Aramis has told me enough to make me believe in the complaints that this unfortunate young man inscribed upon the silver plate.”

D’Artagnan’s head sunk upon his breast with confusion. “This is the way,” said he, “in which God turns to nothing that which men call their wisdom! A fine secret must that be of which twelve or fifteen persons hold the tattered fragments! Athos, cursed be the chance which has brought you face to face with me in this affair! for now-”

“Well,” said Athos, with his customary mild severity, “is your secret lost because I know it? Consult your memory, my friend. Have I not borne secrets as heavy as this?”

“You have never borne one so dangerous,” replied d’Artagnan, in a tone of sadness. “I have something like a sinister idea that all who are concerned with this secret will die, and die unfortunately.”

“The will of God be done!” said Athos; “but here is your governor.”

D’Artagnan and his friends immediately resumed their parts. The governor, suspicious and hard, behaved towards d’Artagnan with a politeness almost amounting to obsequiousness. With respect to the travellers, he contented himself with offering them good cheer, and never taking his eye from them. Athos and Raoul observed that he often tried to embarrass them by sudden attacks, or to catch them off their guard; but neither the one nor the other gave him the least advantage. What d’Artagnan had said was probable, if the governor did not believe it to be quite true. They rose from the table to repose awhile.

“What is this man’s name? I don’t like the looks of him,” said Athos to d’Artagnan, in Spanish.

“De Saint-Mars,” replied the captain.

“He will be, then, the Prince’s jailer?”

“Eh! how can I tell? I may be kept at Ste. Marguerite forever.”

“Oh, no, not you!”

“My friend, I am in the situation of a man who finds a treasure in the midst of a desert. He would like to carry it away, but he cannot; he would like to leave it, but he dare not. The King will not dare to recall me, for fear no one else would serve him as faithfully as I; he regrets not having me near him, from being aware that no one will be of so much service near his person as myself. But it will happen as it may please God.”

“But,” observed Raoul, “your not being certain