"

"Well, that is where Aramis resides."

"What! does he not reside at the episcopal palace?"

"No; that is in ruins. The palace likewise is in the city, and Aramis
prefers the faubourgs. That is why, as I told you, he is partial to
Saint-Patern; Saint-Patern is in the faubourg. Besides, there are in
this faubourg a mall, a tennis-court, and a house of Dominicans. Look,
that where the handsome steeple rises to the heavens."

"Well?"

"Next, you see the faubourg is like a separate city, it has its walls,
its towers, its ditches; the quay is upon it likewise, and the boats
land at the quay. If our little corsair did not draw eight feet of
water, we could have come full sail up to Aramis's windows."

"Porthos, Porthos," cried D'Artagnan, "you are a well of knowledge, a
spring of ingenious and profound reflections. Porthos, you no longer
surprise me, you confound me."

"Here we are," said Porthos, turning the conversation with his usual
modesty.

"And high time we were," thought D'Artagnan, "for Aramis's horse is
melting away like a steed of ice."

They entered almost at the same instant the faubourg; but scarcely had
they gone a hundred paces when they were surprised to find the streets
strewed with leaves and flowers. Against the old walls of Vannes, hung
the oldest and the strangest tapestries of France. From over balconies
fell long white sheets stuck all over with bouquets. The streets were
deserted; it was plain the entire population was assembled on one point.
The blinds were closed, and the breeze penetrated into the houses under
the hangings, which cast long, black shades between their places of
issue and the walls. Suddenly, at the turning of a street, chants
struck the ears of the newly arrived travelers. A crowd in holiday garb
appeared through the vapors of incense which mounted to the heavens in
blue fleeces, and clouds of rose-leaves fluttered as high as the first
stories. Above all heads were to be seen the cross and banners, the
sacred symbols of religion. Then, beneath these crosses and banners,
as if protected by them, walked a whole world of young girls clothed
in white, crowned with corn-flowers. At the two sides of the street,
inclosing the _cortege_, marched the guards of the garrison, carrying
bouquets in the barrels of their muskets and on the points of their
lances. This was the procession.

Whilst D'Artagnan and Porthos were looking on with critical glances,
which disguised an extreme