was given you by the veiled lady with whom I met you the other Sunday, near the gate of St. Honore.”
“No, upon my honour, and by the faith of a gentleman, I bought it with my own money,” said he whom they called Porthos.
“Yes, as I bought this new purse with what my mistress put in the old,” cried another musketeer.
“But it is true,” said Porthos, “and the proof is, that I paid twelve pistoles for it.”
The wonder and admiration were redoubled, though the doubt still existed.
“Is it not so, Aramis?” inquired Porthos, turning to another musketeer.
The person thus appealed to formed a perfect contrast to the one who thus questioned him, and who designated him by the name of Aramis. He was a young man, not more than twenty-two or twenty-three years of age, with a soft and ingenuous countenance, a black and mild eye, and cheeks rosy and damask as an autumnal peach; his slender moustache marked a perfect straight line along his upper lip; his hands appeared to dread hanging down, for fear of making their veins swell; and he was continually pinching the tips of his ears, to make them preserve a delicate and transparent carnation hue. Habitually he talked little and slowly, often bowed, laughed quietly, merely showing his teeth, which were good, and of which, as of the rest of his person, he appeared to take the greatest care. He replied to his friend’s question by an affirmative inclination of the head, and this affirmation appeared to settle all doubt concerning the embroidery. They therefore continued to admire it, but said no more about it; and by a sudden change of thought, the conversation at once passed to another subject.
“What do you think of this story of Chalais’s squire?” inquired another musketeer, not addressing any one in particular, but the company in general.
“And what does he say?” demanded Porthos in a conceited tone.
“He says that he found Rochefort, the tool of the cardinal, at Brussels, disguised as a Capuchin friar; and that this cursed Rochefort, thanks to his disguise, had deceived M. de Laignes, simpleton as he is.”
“He is a simpleton,” said Porthos; “but is it a fact?”
“I heard it from Aramis,” answered the musketeer.
“Really!”
“Ah, you know it well enough, Porthos,” said Aramis.
“I told it you myself yesterday evening; do not let us talk any more about it.”
“Not talk any more about it! that’s your view of the matter,” said Porthos; “not talk any more about it! Egad, you would make short work of it. What! the cardinal sets a spy upon a gentleman, robs him of his correspondence through a traitor, a robber, a gallows-bird; cut Chalais’s throat through this spy, and by means of this correspondence, under the flimsy pretext that he desired to kill the king, and marry monsieur to the queen! No one knew one word of this enigma; you told us of it yesterday evening, to the great astonishment of everyone; and whilst we are still all amazed at the news, you come today and say to us, ‘Let us talk no more about it!’”
“Well, then, since it better suits your humour, let us talk about it,” calmly replied Aramis.
“Were I poor Chalais’s squire,” cried Porthos, “this Rochefort would pass a bad minute with me!”
“And the red duke would make but short work with you,” replied Aramis.
“Ah, the red duke! bravo, bravo, the red duke!” exclaimed Porthos, with an approving nod, and clapping his hands; “the red duke is charming! Rest assured, my dear fellow, that I will disseminate the title. What a genius he has, this Aramis! what a pity that you could not follow your vocation, my dear fellow; what an exquisite abbe you would have made!”
“Oh, it is a mere transitory delay,” replied Aramis; “one day or other I shall be one; for you well know, Porthos, that I continue to study theology with that intention.”
“He will actually do as he says,” replied Porthos; “he will do it, sooner or later.”
“Very soon,” said Aramis.
“He only waits for one thing to decide what he will do, and to resume his cassock, which is hung up behind his uniform,” replied another musketeer.
“And what event does he wait for?” inquired another.
“He waits till the queen has given an heir to the crown of France.”
“Let us not jest on this subject, gentlemen,” said Porthos; “thank God, the queen is yet of an age to give it one.”
“It is said that the Duke of Buckingham is in France,” observed Aramis with a mocking laugh, which gave to his remark, simple as it was in appearance, a meaning sufficiently scandalous.
“Aramis, my friend, this time you are wrong,” rejoined Porthos, “and your wit always leads you too far. It would be the worse for you if M. de Treville heard you talking in this manner.”
“Do not lecture me, Porthos,” cried Aramis, in whose soft eye something like the lightning’s flash now passed.
“My dear fellow, be either musketeer or abbe; be one or the other; but not one and the other,” exclaimed Porthos. “You may remember that Athos told you the other day, that you eat at every rack. But let us not dispute, I beseech you; it would be perfectly useless. You know what is settled between you and me and Athos: you go to Madame d’Aiguillon’s, and you pay her attentions; you then repair to Madame de Bois Tracy, the cousin of Madame de Chevreuse, and a woman in whose good graces you are thought to stand highly. Nay, my dear fellow, confess not your good fortune: no one demands your secret; every one knows your discretion; but since you possess this virtue yourself, surely you will not grudge some portion of it to the queen. Let who will talk about the king and the cardinal, but the queen is sacred; and if you discuss her at all, let it be respectfully.”
“Porthos, you are as presumptuous as Narcissus!” said Aramis; “you know that I detest moralising, except from Athos. As to you, my dear fellow, you have rather too splendid a belt to be powerful on that subject. I will be an abbe if it suits me; in the meantime I am a musketeer, in which character I say what I choose, and at this moment I choose to tell you that you irritate me.”
“Aramis!”
“Porthos!”
“That will do! gentlemen! gentlemen!” cried out all around them.
“M. de Treville awaits M. d’Artagnan,” interrupted the lackey, opening the door of the cabinet.
At this declaration, during which the door remained open, every one was silent; and in the midst of this general silence the young Gascon, passing through part of the antechamber, entered the cabinet of the captain of the musketeers, felicitating himself with all his heart upon just escaping the conclusion of this singular quarrel.
M. de Treville was at this moment in a very bad humour; nevertheless, as the young man bowed to the ground, he politely saluted him, and smiled on receiving his compliments, which in their accent,
