“Ah!” cried Porthos; “would I were but a baron!”
“Well, my friend, I am come to give you this very title
which you wish for so much.”
Porthos gave a start that shook the room; two or three
bottles fell and were broken. Mousqueton ran thither, hearing
the noise.
Porthos waved his hand to Mousqueton to pick up the bottles.
“I am glad to see,” said D’Artagnan, “that you have still
that honest lad with you.”
“He is my steward,” replied Porthos; “he will never leave
me. Go away now, Mouston.”
“So he’s called Mouston,” thought D’Artagnan; “’tis too long
a word to pronounce `Mousqueton.'”
“Well,” he said aloud, “let us resume our conversation
later, your people may suspect something; there may be spies
about. You can suppose, Porthos, that what I have to say
relates to most important matters.”
“Devil take them; let us walk in the park,” answered
Porthos, “for the sake of digestion.”
“Egad,” said D’Artagnan, “the park is like everything else
and there are as many fish in your pond as rabbits in your
warren; you are a happy man, my friend since you have not
only retained your love of the chase, but acquired that of
fishing.”
“My friend,” replied Porthos, “I leave fishing to Mousqueton,
— it is a vulgar pleasure, — but I shoot sometimes; that
is to say, when I am dull, and I sit on one of those marble
seats, have my gun brought to me, my favorite dog, and I
shoot rabbits.”
“Really, how very amusing!”
“Yes,” replied Porthos, with a sigh, “it is amusing.”
D’Artagnan now no longer counted the sighs. They were
innumerable.
“However, what had you to say to me?” he resumed; “let us
return to that subject.”
“With pleasure,” replied D’Artagnan; “I must, however, first
frankly tell you that you must change your mode of life.”
“How?”
“Go into harness again, gird on your sword, run after
adventures, and leave as in old times a little of your fat
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on the roadside.”
“Ah! hang it!” said Porthos.
“I see you are spoiled, dear friend; you are corpulent, your
arm has no longer that movement of which the late cardinal’s
guards have so many proofs.”
“Ah! my fist is strong enough I swear,” cried Porthos,
extending a hand like a shoulder of mutton.
“So much the better.”
“Are we then to go to war?”
“By my troth, yes.”
“Against whom?”
“Are you a politician, friend?”
“Not in the least.”
“Are you for Mazarin or for the princes?”
“I am for no one.”
“That is to say, you are for us. Well, I tell you that I
come to you from the cardinal.”
This speech was heard by Porthos in the same sense as if it
had still been in the year 1640 and related to the true
cardinal.
“Ho! ho! What are the wishes of his eminence?”
“He wishes to have you in his service.”
“And who spoke to him of me?”
“Rochefort — you remember him?”
“Yes, pardieu! It was he who gave us so much trouble and
kept us on the road so much; you gave him three sword-wounds
in three separate engagements.”
“But you know he is now our friend?”
“No, I didn’t know that. So he cherishes no resentment?”
“You are mistaken, Porthos,” said D’Artagnan. “It is I who
cherish no resentment.”
Porthos didn’t understand any too clearly; but then we know
that understanding was not his strong point. “You say,
then,” he continued, “that the Count de Rochefort spoke of
me to the cardinal?”
“Yes, and the queen, too.”
“The queen, do you say?”
“To inspire us with confidence she has even placed in
Mazarin’s hands that famous diamond — you remember all
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about it — that I once sold to Monsieur des Essarts and of
which, I don’t know how, she has regained possession.”
“But it seems to me,” said Porthos, “that she would have
done much better if she had given it back to you.”
“So I think,” replied D’Artagnan; “but kings and queens are
strange beings and have odd fancies; nevertheless, since
they are the ones who have riches and honors, we are devoted