ng it, please."

Aramis immediately complied, and sang the song in a very lively manner.

"Bravo!" cried D'Artagnan, "you sing charmingly, dear Aramis. I do not
perceive that singing masses has spoiled your voice."

"My dear D'Artagnan," replied Aramis, "you understand, when I was a
musketeer I mounted guard as seldom as I could; now when I am an abbe I
say as few masses as I can. But to return to our duchess."

"Which--the Duchess de Chevreuse or the Duchess de Longueville?"

"Have I not already told you that there is nothing between me and the
Duchess de Longueville? Little flirtations, perhaps, and that's all. No,
I spoke of the Duchess de Chevreuse; did you see her after her return
from Brussels, after the king's death?"

"Yes, she is still beautiful."

"Yes," said Aramis, "I saw her also at that time. I gave her good
advice, by which she did not profit. I ventured to tell her that Mazarin
was the lover of Anne of Austria. She wouldn't believe me, saying that
she knew Anne of Austria, who was too proud to love such a worthless
coxcomb. After that she plunged into the cabal headed by the Duke of
Beaufort; and the 'coxcomb' arrested De Beaufort and banished Madame de
Chevreuse."

"You know," resumed D'Artagnan, "that she has had leave to return to
France?"

"Yes she is come back and is going to commit some fresh folly or
another."

"Oh, but this time perhaps she will follow your advice."

"Oh, this time," returned Aramis, "I haven't seen her; she is much
changed."

"In that respect unlike you, my dear Aramis, for you are still the same;
you have still your beautiful dark hair, still your elegant figure,
still your feminine hands, which are admirably suited to a prelate."

"Yes," replied Aramis, "I am extremely careful of my appearance. Do you
know that I am growing old? I am nearly thirty-seven."

"Mind, Aramis"--D'Artagnan smiled as he spoke--"since we are together
again, let us agree on one point: what age shall we be in future?"

"How?"

"Formerly I was your junior by two or three years, and if I am not
mistaken I am turned forty years old."

"Indeed! Then 'tis I who am mistaken, for you have always been a good
chronologist. By your reckoning I must be forty-three at least. The
devil I am! Don't let it out at the Hotel Rambouillet; it would ruin
me," replied the abbe.

"Don't be afraid," said D'Artagnan. "I never go there."

"Why, what in the world," cried Aramis, "is that animal Bazin doing