“But you expected some one then?” asked the officer. “Oh,” said Aramis, “I always try to be prepared; and then I knew you were seeking me.” “From whom?” “From Master Bazin, to be sure; he took you for the devil, my dear fellow, and hastened to warn me of the danger that threatened my soul if I should meet again a companion so wicked as an officer of musketeers.” “Oh, monsieur!” said Bazin, clasping his hands supplicatingly. “Come, no hypocrisy! you know that I don’t like it. You will do much better to open the window and let down some bread, a chicken and a bottle of wine to your friend Planchet, who has been this last hour killing himself clapping his hands.” Planchet, in fact, had bedded and fed his horses, and then coming back under the window had repeated two or three times the signal agreed upon. Bazin obeyed, fastened to the end of a cord the three articles designated and let them down to Planchet, who then went satisfied to his shed. “Now to supper,” said Aramis. The two friends sat down and Aramis began to cut up fowls, partridges and hams with admirable skill. “The deuce!” cried D’Artagnan; “do you live in this way always?” “Yes, pretty well. The coadjutor has given me dispensations from fasting on the _jours maigres_, on account of my health; then I have engaged as my cook the cook who lived with Lafollone—you know the man I mean?—the friend of the cardinal, and the famous epicure whose grace after dinner used to be, ‘Good Lord, do me the favor to cause me to digest what I have eaten.’” “Nevertheless he died of indigestion, in spite of his grace,” said D’Artagnan. “What can you expect?” replied Aramis, in a tone of resignation. “Every man that’s born must fulfil his destiny.” “If it be not an indelicate question,” resumed D’Artagnan, “have you grown rich?” “Oh, Heaven! no. I make about twelve thousand francs a year, without counting a little benefice of a thousand crowns the prince gave me.” “And how do you make your twelve thousand francs? By your poems?” “No, I have given up poetry, except now and then to write a drinking song, some gay sonnet or some innocent epigram; I compose sermons, my friend.” “What! sermons? Do you preach them?” “No; I sell them to those of my cloth who wish to become great orators.” “Ah, indeed! and you have not been tempted by the hopes of reputation yourself?”