“Pardon, Monsieur, but I doubt whether he can see you at this moment.”
“Why so? Has he a lady with him?”
“Jesus! What do you mean by that? Poor lad! No, Monsieur, he has not a lady with him.”
“With whom is he, then?”
“With the curate of Montdidier and the superior of the Jesuits of Amiens.”
“Good heavens!” cried d’Artagnan, “is the poor fellow worse, then?”
“No, Monsieur, quite the contrary; but after his illness grace touched him, and he determined to take orders.”
“That’s it!” said d’Artagnan, “I had forgotten that he was only a musketeer for a time.”
“Monsieur still insists upon seeing him?”
“More than ever.”
“Well, Monsieur has only to take the right-hand staircase in the courtyard, and knock at Number Five on the second floor.”
D’Artagnan walked quickly in the direction indicated, and found one of those exterior staircases that are still to be seen in the yards of our old-fashioned taverns. But there was no getting at the place of sojourn of the future abbé; the defiles of the chamber of Aramis were as well guarded as the gardens of Armida. Bazin was stationed in the corridor, and barred his passage with the more intrepidity that, after many years of trial, Bazin found himself near a result of which he had ever been ambitious.