“Ah, is that you, D’Artagnan, and you, Athos?” said the young man. “I was reflecting upon the rapidity with which the blessings of this world leave us. My English horse, which has just disappeared amid a cloud of dust, has furnished me with a living image of the fragility of the things of the earth. Life itself may be resolved into three words: _Erat, est, fuit_.” “Which means—” said D’Artagnan, who began to suspect the truth. “Which means that I have just been duped—sixty louis for a horse which by the manner of his gait can do at least five leagues an hour.” D’Artagnan and Athos laughed aloud. “My dear D’Artagnan,” said Aramis, “don’t be too angry with me, I beg. Necessity has no law; besides, I am the person punished, as that rascally horsedealer has robbed me of fifty louis, at least. Ah, you fellows are good managers! You ride on our lackey’s horses, and have your own gallant steeds led along carefully by hand, at short stages.” At the same instant a market cart, which some minutes before had appeared upon the Amiens road, pulled up at the inn, and Planchet and Grimaud came out of it with the saddles on their heads. The cart was returning empty to Paris, and the two lackeys had agreed, for their transport, to slake the wagoner’s thirst along the route. “What is this?” said Aramis, on seeing them arrive. “Nothing but saddles?” “Now do you understand?” said Athos. “My friends, that’s exactly like me! I retained my harness by instinct. _Holà_, Bazin! Bring my new saddle and carry it along with those of these gentlemen.” “And what have you done with your ecclesiastics?” asked D’Artagnan. “My dear fellow, I invited them to a dinner the next day,” replied Aramis. “They have some capital wine here—please to observe that in passing. I did my best to make them drunk. Then the curate forbade me to quit my uniform, and the Jesuit entreated me to get him made a Musketeer.” “Without a thesis?” cried D’Artagnan, “without a thesis? I demand the suppression of the thesis.” “Since then,” continued Aramis, “I have lived very agreeably. I have begun a poem in verses of one syllable. That is rather difficult, but the merit in all things consists in the difficulty. The matter is gallant. I will read you the first canto. It has four hundred lines, and lasts a minute.” “My faith, my dear Aramis,” said D’Artagnan, who detested verses almost as much as he did Latin, “add to the merit of the difficulty that of the brevity, and you are sure that your poem will at least have two merits.”