Bazin scratched at the door, and as Aramis had no longer any reason to exclude him, he bade him come in.
Bazin was stupefied at the sight of the gold, and forgot that he came to announce d’Artagnan, who, curious to know who the mendicant could be, came to Aramis on leaving Athos.
Now, as d’Artagnan used no ceremony with Aramis, seeing that Bazin forgot to announce him, he announced himself.
“The devil! my dear Aramis,” said d’Artagnan, “if these are the prunes that are sent to you from Tours, I beg you will make my compliments to the gardener who gathers them.”
“You are mistaken, friend d’Artagnan,” said Aramis, always on his guard; “this is from my publisher, who has just sent me the price of that poem in one-syllable verse which I began yonder.”
“Ah, indeed,” said d’Artagnan. “Well, your publisher is very generous, my dear Aramis, that’s all I can say.”
“How, Monsieur?” cried Bazin, “a poem sell so dear as that! It is incredible! Oh, Monsieur, you can write as much as you like; you may become equal to M. de Voiture and M. de Benserade. I like that. A poet is as good as an abbé. Ah! M. Aramis, become a poet, I beg of you.”
“Bazin, my friend,” said Aramis, “I believe you meddle with my conversation.”
Bazin perceived he was wrong; he bowed and went out.
“Ah!” said d’Artagnan with a smile, “you sell your productions at their weight in gold. You are very fortunate, my friend; but take care or you will lose that letter which is peeping from your doublet, and which also comes, no doubt, from your publisher.”