ble trio of friends,
don't you think so? A beautiful relic of former times."

"I can only tell you one thing, D'Artagnan, and I swear it on the Bible;
I love you just as I used to do. If I ever suspect you, it is on account
of others, and not on account of either of us. In everything I may do,
and should happen to succeed in, you will find your fourth. Will you
promise me the same favor?"

"If I am not mistaken, Aramis, your words--at the moment you pronounce
them--are full of generous feeling."

"That is possible."

"You are conspiring against M. Colbert. If that be all, _mordioux_, tell
me so at once. I have the instrument in my own hand, and will pull out
the tooth easily enough."

Aramis could not restrain a smile of disdain which passed across his
noble features. "And supposing that I were conspiring against Colbert,
what harm would there be in that?"

"No, no; that would be too trifling a matter for you to take in hand,
and it was not on that account you asked Percerin for those patterns of
the king's costumes. Oh! Aramis, we are not enemies, remember, but
brothers. Tell me what you wish to undertake, and, upon the word of a
D'Artagnan, if I cannot help you, I will swear to remain neuter."

"I am undertaking nothing," said Aramis.

"Aramis, a voice speaks within me, and seems to enlighten my darkness;
it is a voice which has never yet deceived me. It is the king you are
conspiring against."

"The king?" exclaimed the bishop, pretending to be annoyed.

"Your face will not convince me; the king. I repeat."

"Will you help me?" said Aramis, smiling ironically.

"Aramis, I will do more than help you--I will do more than remain
neuter--I will save you."

"You are mad, D'Artagnan."

"I am the wiser of the two, in this matter."

"You to suspect me of wishing to assassinate the king!"

"Who spoke of that at all?" said the musketeer.

"Well, let us understand each other. I do not see what any one can do to
a legitimate king as ours is, if he does not assassinate him."
D'Artagnan did not say a word. "Besides, you have your guards and your
musketeers here," said the bishop.

"True."

"You are not in M. Fouquet's house, but in your own."

"True; but in spite of that, Aramis, grant me, for pity's sake, but one
single word of a true friend."

"A friend's word is the truth itself. If I think of touching, even with
my finger, the son of Anne of Austria, the true king of this realm of
France--if I have