“My Friend, it is the will of fate that we should be still for some time separated; but the delightful days of youth are not lost beyond return. Perform your duty in camp; I will do mine elsewhere. Accept that which the bearer brings you; make the campaign like a handsome true gentleman, and think of me, who kisses tenderly your black eyes. “Adieu; or rather, _au revoir_.” The mendicant continued to rip his garments; and drew from amid his rags a hundred and fifty Spanish double pistoles, which he laid down on the table; then he opened the door, bowed, and went out before the young man, stupefied by his letter, had ventured to address a word to him. Aramis then reperused the letter, and perceived a postscript: PS. You may behave politely to the bearer, who is a count and a grandee of Spain! “Golden dreams!” cried Aramis. “Oh, beautiful life! Yes, we are young; yes, we shall yet have happy days! My love, my blood, my life! all, all, all, are thine, my adored mistress!” And he kissed the letter with passion, without even vouchsafing a look at the gold which sparkled on the table. Bazin scratched at the door, and as Aramis had no longer any reason to exclude him, he bade him come in. Bazin was stupefied at the sight of the gold, and forgot that he came to announce D’Artagnan, who, curious to know who the mendicant could be, came to Aramis on leaving Athos. Now, as D’Artagnan used no ceremony with Aramis, seeing that Bazin forgot to announce him, he announced himself. “The devil! my dear Aramis,” said D’Artagnan, “if these are the prunes that are sent to you from Tours, I beg you will make my compliments to the gardener who gathers them.” “You are mistaken, friend D’Artagnan,” said Aramis, always on his guard; “this is from my publisher, who has just sent me the price of that poem in one-syllable verse which I began yonder.” “Ah, indeed,” said D’Artagnan. “Well, your publisher is very generous, my dear Aramis, that’s all I can say.” “How, monsieur?” cried Bazin, “a poem sell so dear as that! It is incredible! Oh, monsieur, you can write as much as you like; you may become equal to Monsieur de Voiture and Monsieur de Benserade. I like that. A poet is as good as an abbé. Ah! Monsieur Aramis, become a poet, I beg of you.” “Bazin, my friend,” said Aramis, “I believe you meddle with my conversation.” Bazin perceived he was wrong; he bowed and went out. “Ah!” said D’Artagnan with a smile, “you sell your productions at their weight in gold. You are very fortunate, my friend; but take care or you will lose that letter which is peeping from your doublet, and which also comes, no doubt, from your publisher.” Aramis blushed to the eyes, crammed in the letter, and re-buttoned his doublet. “My dear D’Artagnan,” said he, “if you please, we will join our friends; as I am rich, we will today begin to dine together again, expecting that you will be rich in your turn.”