“Yes; a woman whom I love, whom I adore, has just been torn from me by force. I do not know where she is or whither they have conducted her. She is perhaps a prisoner; she is perhaps dead!” “Yes, but you have at least this consolation, that you can say to yourself she has not quit you voluntarily, that if you learn no news of her, it is because all communication with you is interdicted; while I—” “Well?” “Nothing,” replied Aramis, “nothing.” “So you renounce the world, then, forever; that is a settled thing—a resolution registered!” “Forever! You are my friend today; tomorrow you will be no more to me than a shadow, or rather, even, you will no longer exist. As for the world, it is a sepulcher and nothing else.” “The devil! All this is very sad which you tell me.” “What will you? My vocation commands me; it carries me away.” D’Artagnan smiled, but made no answer. Aramis continued, “And yet, while I do belong to the earth, I wish to speak of you—of our friends.” “And on my part,” said D’Artagnan, “I wished to speak of you, but I find you so completely detached from everything! To love you cry, ‘Fie! Friends are shadows! The world is a sepulcher!’” “Alas, you will find it so yourself,” said Aramis, with a sigh. “Well, then, let us say no more about it,” said D’Artagnan; “and let us burn this letter, which, no doubt, announces to you some fresh infidelity of your _grisette_ or your chambermaid.” “What letter?” cried Aramis, eagerly. “A letter which was sent to your abode in your absence, and which was given to me for you.” “But from whom is that letter?” “Oh, from some heartbroken waiting woman, some desponding _grisette;_ from Madame de Chevreuse’s chambermaid, perhaps, who was obliged to return to Tours with her mistress, and who, in order to appear smart and attractive, stole some perfumed paper, and sealed her letter with a duchess’s coronet.” “What do you say?” “Hold! I must have lost it,” said the young man maliciously, pretending to search for it. “But fortunately the world is a sepulcher; the men, and consequently the women, are but shadows, and love is a sentiment to which you cry, ‘Fie! Fie!’” “D’Artagnan, D’Artagnan,” cried Aramis, “you are killing me!” “Well, here it is at last!” said D’Artagnan, as he drew the letter from his pocket. Aramis made a bound, seized the letter, read it, or rather devoured it, his countenance radiant. “This same waiting maid seems to have an agreeable style,” said the messenger, carelessly. “Thanks, D’Artagnan, thanks!” cried Aramis, almost in a state of delirium. “She was forced to return to Tours; she is not faithless; she still loves me! Come, my friend, come, let me embrace you. Happiness almost stifles me!” The two friends began to dance around the venerable St. Chrysostom, kicking about famously the sheets of the thesis, which had fallen on the floor. At that moment Bazin entered with the spinach and the omelet.