This time it was no host but a hostess who greeted him. A canny physiognomist, he took in at one glance the plump, merry countenance of the mistress of the place, understanding at once that he need not dissemble and that he had nothing to fear from anyone with so cheerful an air.
“My dear Madame,” he asked before dismounting, “could you tell me what has happened to a friend of mine, whom we were obliged to leave here about twelve days ago?”
“Does Monsieur mean a handsome young man? Twenty-three or twenty-four years old? A gentle, pleasant-spoken and very well-built young man?”
“Your description fits him like a glove. What’s more, he was wounded in the shoulder.”
“True, Monsieur.”
“Well, what about him?”
“He’s still here, Monsieur.”
D’Artagnan leaped off his horse, tossed the reins to Planchet and:
“God help us, Madame,” he cried, “you restore me to life. Where is my dear Aramis? I long to embrace him again; I vow I cannot wait to see him.”
“Begging your pardon, Monsieur, I doubt whether he can see you just now.”
“How so? Has he a lady with him?”
“God forbid, Monsieur; by Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what are you saying? No, he is with no woman.”
“Well then, whom is he with?”
“With the curé of Montdidier and the Superior of the Jesuits of Amiens.”
“Good Lord, can the poor fellow have taken a turn for the worse?”
“No, Monsieur, on the contrary. But after his troubles the grace of Heaven seems to have touched him and he has decided to take up Holy Orders.”
“Ah, yes, I had forgotten he was but a musketeer pro tem.”
“Is Monsieur still eager to see him?”
“More than ever, I assure you.”
“Well, Monsieur has only to take the right-hand staircase off the courtyard and knock at Number Five on the second floor.”
Following her instructions D’Artagnan found one of those outside stairways that may still be seen today in the courtyard of old inns. But it was no easy task to penetrate into the presence of the future abbé; the passages to the chamber Aramis occupied were guarded as closely as ever the alleys of the gardens of Armida in Tasso’s Jerusalem Delivered. Bazin, stationed in the corridor, barred all entrance the more intrepidly because after years of trial he now found himself within sight of the goal he had so steadfastly dreamed of.
Ever since he could remember, poor Bazin had longed to serve a churchman and, year after year, he had been longing for the day when Aramis would at last exchange the uniform for the cassock. It was only his master’s frequent promises that the moment was almost at hand which kept Bazin in the service of a musketeer—a service in which, he was wont to add, his soul was in constant jeopardy.
Bazin was therefore overjoyed; this time in all probability his master would not retract. The combination of physical hurt and moral pain had surely produced the desired result! Suffering both in body and soul, Aramis had at last fixed his eyes and his thoughts upon religion, Bazin was sure. Ay, two horrible accidents had befallen him: the sudden disappearance of his mistress and the wound in his shoulder! Happily now he had come to regard these as warnings from an all-too indulgent Heaven!
In his present frame of mind then Bazin could not have imagined anything more unwelcome than D’Artagnan’s arrival, which must needs cast his master back again into the vortex of mundane concerns that had swept him along for so many years. Bazin therefore resolved to defend the door bravely and since, betrayed by the hostess, he could not say that Aramis was absent, he attempted to prove to the visitor that it would be the height of indiscretion for him to disturb Monsieur Aramis in the midst of a pious conference which had begun that morning and which, Bazin was certain, would go on far into the night.
D’Artagnan, regardless of this eloquent discourse and in no mood to engage in polemic discussion with his friend’s valet, simply moved him aside with one hand and with the other turned the handle of the door to Room Number Five.
He found Aramis clad in a black gown, his head surmounted by a sort of round, flat, black headdress not unlike a skull cap; the musketeer was seated at an oblong table covered with scrolls of paper and huge volumes in folio. At his right sat the Superior of the Jesuits; at his left the Curé of Montdidier. The curtains, half-drawn, permitted only the most discreet subdued daylight to enter the room, a penumbral glow calculated to encourage the most beatific contemplations. Any worldly object that might generally strike the eye on entering a young man’s room—particularly when that young man is a musketeer—had disappeared as if by enchantment. Further, no doubt in fear lest the sight of his swords, pistols, plumed hat, embroideries and laces of all sorts might recall Aramis back to the follies of this world, Bazin had carefully put them away. Nothing of the normal equipment of a young man of fashion was visible; in the stead and place of such objects, D’Artagnan thought he perceived a whip for self-flagellation hanging from a nail on the wall.
Hearing the door open, Aramis looked up and recognized his friend. But to D’Artagnan’s immense surprise his appearance seemed to make but a slight impression on an Aramis lost in supraterrestrial speculation.
“Good day to you, my dear D’Artagnan,” Aramis said with utter calm, “believe me, I am happy to see you.”
“And I too,” D’Artagnan assured him, “although I am not yet quite certain that this is Aramis.”
“And why not, my dear friend?”
“I feared I had mistaken your room and walked in upon some churchman. Then when I saw these two Fathers by your side I suddenly thought you were dangerously ill.”
The two men in black, guessing at once what D’Artagnan meant, looked almost threateningly at him but this did not feaze him.
“Perhaps I am disturbing you, my dear Aramis,” D’Artagnan suggested. “Unless my eyes mistake me, you were busy making confession to these gentlemen—?”
Aramis blushed ever so slightly and:
“You are not disturbing me,” he assured D’Artagnan. “On the contrary, my dear friend, I vow I am delighted to note that you have come back from your travels safe and sound.” (D’Artagnan congratulated himself silently on the fact that Aramis seemed to have returned to earth; indeed he was coming around at last and high time, too!) “This gentleman is a friend of mine,” Aramis explained unctuously to the two clerics. “He has just escaped considerable danger.”
“Praise God!” and “God be praised, Monsieur!” the ecclesiastics intoned, bowing in unison.
“I did not fail to praise Him, Your Reverences,” D’Artagnan countered, returning their salutation.
“Your arrival is most timely, my dear D’Artagnan,” Aramis continued smoothly. “By taking part in our discussion you can perhaps shed some light of your own upon the subject we were discussing. Monsieur le Principal, Superior of the Jesuits at Amiens, and Monsieur le Curé of Montdidier and I are arguing about certain theological problems which have long fascinated us. I am sure I would welcome any contribution you might care to make to our discussion.”
“The opinion of a man of the sword can carry no weight,” D’Artagnan protested, somewhat uneasy at the turn the conversation was taking. “Surely the learning of these gentlemen can settle all your doubts?”
Again the two men in black bowed in unison.
“Not at all, my dear D’Artagnan, I know your opinion will be much appreciated,” Aramis pursued in honeyed tones. “Here is the point: Monsieur le Principal believes that my thesis ought to be very dogmatic and didactic.”
“Your thesis? You are presenting a thesis?”
“Of course he is,” the Jesuit replied. “For the examination preceding ordination, a thesis is always requisite.”
“Ordination!” D’Artagnan echoed, flabbergasted, for he still could not bring himself to believe what both the hostess and Bazin had told him. “Ordination!” he repeated, looking in bewilderment at the trio before him.
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br /> Aramis sat back in his armchair with the same easy grace he would have assumed on a formal visit to the bedside of a lady of the Court. Nonchalantly he looked down at his hand, as white and as dimpled a hand as the fairest woman might boast; then he dropped his arm so that the blood might flow down to his fingertips. “Well, D’Artagnan, just as I told you, Monsieur le Principal would wish my thesis to be thoroughly dogmatic, whereas I would prefer it to be thoroughly idealistic. That is why Monsieur le Principal has proposed this subject: Utraque manus in benedicendo clericis inferioribus necessaria est—”
D’Artagnan, whose education was rudimentary, did not flinch at this learned quotation any more than he had flinched when Monsieur de Tréville had uttered certain incomprehensible words about gifts he believed D’Artagnan had received from the Duke of Buckingham.
Aramis however was not duped by the Gascon’s imperturbability. With exquisite tact he added urbanely:
“I need scarcely translate the Latin for you as you know it means That it is indispensable for priests of the inferior orders to employ both hands when they bestow the benediction. Monsieur le Principal assures me the topic has not been treated and I myself see what magnificent possibilities it offers.”
“An admirable subject!” the Jesuit confirmed and “Admirably dogmatic!” the Curé approved, for, about as well versed in Latin as D’Artagnan, he observed the Jesuit’s every move in order to keep in step and echo him verbatim. As for D’Artagnan, he remained totally indifferent to the zeal and enthusiasm of the clerics. “Prorsus admirabile, admirable indeed,” Aramis continued blandly, “but the subject requires a profound study of both the Scriptures and the Church Fathers. In all humility, D’Artagnan, I confessed to these ecclesiastical savants that my duties in mounting guard and serving the King have caused me to neglect my studies somewhat. Accordingly, facilius natans, swimming in my own waters, so to speak, I ventured that a subject of my own choosing might offer to these arduous theological problems something of the comfort moral science offers to the study of metaphysics in the realm of philosophy.”
D’Artagnan felt bored to tears, so too the Curé.
“See what an exordium!” the Jesuit commented.
“Exordium,” the Curé repeated for want of something to say.
“Quemadmodum inter coelorum immensitatem,” Aramis said, “All ways are good so but we reach the vast world of heaven!” As he glanced at D’Artagnan to see what effect all this produced, he saw but a vast yawn, fit to break even a Gascon’s jaw. “Let us speak French, Father,” he urged the Jesuit, “Monsieur D’Artagnan will enjoy our conversation the more.”
“Ay, gentlemen, I confess I am tired out after my journey and all this Latin confuses me.”
Somewhat vexed, the Jesuit agreed; the Curé glanced gratefully at D’Artagnan and the Jesuit went on:
“Let us see, my friends, what sense is to be derived from this gloss …” He sighed cavernously, “Moses, the servant of God … he was but a servant, remember … Moses, I say, blessed with his hands, you understand … he had acolytes hold up his two arms while the Hebrews fell victoriously upon their enemies … in other words, he blessed with both hands.… Besides, what does the Gospel say? It says imponite manus not imponite manum, the hands, plural, not the hand.”
“Imponite manus,” the Curé echoed with an appropriate gesture, “lay on both hands!”
“Of course in the case of Saint Peter there was a slight difference,” the Jesuit continued. “His successors, the Popes said: Porrige digitos, bless with the fingers.” He coughed. “Do you follow me?” he asked hopefully.
“Certainly,” Aramis exclaimed gleefully, “but the point is a subtle one.”
“The fingers,” the Jesuit insisted, “Saint Peter blessed with the fingers; the Pope therefore blesses with his fingers. And with how many fingers does he perform the benediction? With three, naturally: one for the Father, one for the Son, and one for the Holy Ghost.”
Seeing the three disputants cross themselves, D’Artagnan did likewise. The Jesuit droned on:
“His Holiness the Pope is the direct successor of Saint Peter; he therefore represents the three divine powers, the Holy Trinity. All others, ordines inferiores or the lower orders of the ecclesiastical hierarchy, bless only in the name of the Archangels and Angels. The humblest clerics, our deacons, say, and our sacristans, bless with Holy Water sprinklers which represent an indefinite number of fingers extended in the act of Holy Benediction!” He sighed. “There,” he continued sententiously, “you have the matter in a nutshell!” But he was not yet done. “Argumentum omni denudatati ornamento, I have presented my argument in unadorned simplicity,” he insisted and, carried away with excitement: “I fully expect to write two volumes meaty as these,” he vowed, slapping an in-folio Saint Chrysostom of such weight and bulk that the table all but collapsed under it.
The impact of his palm and the tremulous table legs caused D’Artagnan to shudder. Aramis broke in.
“I must pay tribute to the beauty of this thesis, Father,” he said humbly, “but it overwhelms me. For my part I had chosen another text and I beg you to tell me if it pleases you, my dear D’Artagnan. It is: Non inutile est desiderium in oblatione, or better, a little regret is not unbecoming in an offering to the Lord.”
“Stop, stop!” the Jesuit warned. “That thesis borders on heresy; I find an almost identical proposition in the Augustinus of Jansenius, the heresiarch whose work will sooner or later be burned by the public executioner. Have a care, my young friend, you seem to incline toward false doctrines that may spell your ruin.”
“Your ruin!” the Curé seconded, shaking his head sorrowfully.
“You are skirting that famous question of free will which is a deadly shoal. You are steering straight for the insinuations of the Pelagians and near-Pelagians.”
“But Reverend Father—” Aramis ventured, somewhat taken aback by the shower of arguments falling about his head.
The Jesuit, giving him no time to make his point, challenged:
“How are you going to prove that we ought to regret the world when we offer ourselves to God? The dilemma is clear; listen! God is God, the World is the Devil, to regret the World is to regret the Devil. That is my conclusion.”
“Mine too,” said the Curé.
“But I beg of you …”
“Desideras diabolum, you yearn for the Devil, O unhappy man!” said the Jesuit pontifically.
“Ay, he yearns for the Devil!” the Curé groaned. “Poor young man, I implore you not to hanker after Satan!”
For D’Artagnan the whole scene was incomprehensible and the language so much Greek, let alone Latin. Was this a madhouse? Was he turning as mad as the people in it? Hampered by his lack of dialectic, he sank graciously into silence. Aramis, polite and suave as ever, but with unmistakable symptoms of impatience, was saying:
“Please hear me out, Father. I never said anything about regretting the world or hankering after Satan. You will at least grant that I could not utter a statement so unorthodox—”
As though rehearsed to do so, both Jesuit and Curé raised their arms to Heaven. This gave Aramis a brief inning.
“I appeal to you D’Artagnan, would it not be an act of ill grace to offer to the Lord a gift which filled one with disgust?”
“By God, yes!”
Jesuit and Curé rose simultaneously in their chairs, then sank back.
“I start from this simple syllogism,” Aramis continued. “One: The World is not wanting in charm; Two, I quit the World and thus make a sacrifice; and Three, I obey the injunction of the Scriptures which command us to make a sacrifice unto the Lord.”
“True,” said the Jesuit, and “Yes, yes,” said the Curé.
“What is more, I have written a rondeau about the whole problem.” Aramis pinched his ears to redden them and twiddled his hands to make them white. “It is not a very good poem but I showed it to Monsieur Voiture last year and he was kind enough to say he liked it.”
“A rondeau!” the Jesuit said contemptuously.
“A rondeau!” the Curé repeated mechanically.
“Do let us hear it, my dear Aramis!” D’Artagnan begged, welcoming an opportunity to take part in the discussion. “It will at least clear the air a bit!”
“I fear not, D’Artagnan, for it is a highly religious piece; it is theology expressed in verse.”
“The devil you say, Aramis!”
“Well, anyhow, here it is, since you asked for it,” Aramis said with a diffidence not exempt of a shade of hypocrisy. And he read:
Vous qui pleurez un passé plein de charmes
Et qui traînez des jours infortunés,
Tous vos malheurs se verront terminés
Quand à Dieu seul vous offrirez vos larmes—
Vous qui pleurez!
All ye who weep for dulcet pleasures past,
Your lives unfortunate and unbefriended,
Soon shall your chronicle of woe be ended
When that God greets your proferred tears at last,
All ye who weep!
D’Artagnan and the Curé evinced a certain satisfaction at the recitation but the Jesuit persisted in his opinion:
“Beware of a profane taste in theological style,” he warned. “Remember Saint Augustine’s dictum: Severus sit clericorum sermo, let the preacher speak strictly to the point.”
“Ay, let the sermon be clear!” the Curé approved.
“And,” the Jesuit hastened on, aware that his acolyte misunderstood his Latin, “I am sure your thesis will please the ladies. I foresee the sort of success Maître Patru obtains when he pleads a cause in the law courts to the delight of an audience of sighing women.”
“Please God you speak true,” cried Aramis delighted.
“There, you see,” the Jesuit scolded, “the world still speaks through you, altissima voce, loud as it can. You follow the world, my young friend, and I much fear Grace has not visited you.”
“Rest easy, Father, I can answer for myself.”
“With all the arrogance of worldly presumption!”
“I know what I am about, Father; I have made up my mind!”
The Modern Library Children's Classics Page 89
