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 impatience to get forward, a magnificent dais
approached preceded by a hundred Jesuits and a hundred Dominicans, and
escorted by two archdeacons, a treasurer, a penitent and twelve canons.
A singer with a thundering voice--a man certainly picked out from all
the voices of France, as was the drum-major of the imperial guard from
all the giants of the empire--escorted by four other chanters, who
appeared to be there only to serve him as an accompaniment, made the air
resound, and the windows of the houses vibrate. Under the dais appeared
a pale and noble countenance with black eyes, black hair streaked with
threads of white, a delicate, compressed mouth, a prominent and angular
chin. His head, full of graceful majesty, was covered with the episcopal
mitre, a headdress which gave it, in addition to the character of
sovereignty, that of asceticism and evangelic meditation.

"Aramis!" cried the musketeer, involuntarily, as this lofty countenance
passed before him. The prelate started at the sound of the voice. He
raised his large black eyes, with their long lashes, and turned them
without hesitation towards the spot whence the exclamation proceeded.
At a glance, he saw Porthos and D'Artagnan close to him. On his part,
D'Artagnan, thanks to the keenness of his sight, had seen all, seized
all. The full portrait of the prelate had entered his memory, never to
leave it. One thing had particularly struck D'Artagnan. On perceiving
him, Aramis had colored, then he had concentrated under his eyelids the
fire of the look of the master, and the indefinable affection of
the friend. It was evident that Aramis had asked himself this
question:--"Why is D'Artagnan with Porthos, and what does he want
at Vannes?" Aramis comprehended all that was passing in the mind of
D'Artagnan, on turning his look upon him again, and seeing that he had
not lowered his eyes. He knew the acuteness and intelligence of his
friend, he feared to let him divine the secret of his blush and his
astonishment. He was still the same Aramis, always having a secret to
conceal. Therefore, to put an end to his look of an inquis