“Come,” thought the musketeer, “since there is to be a squabble, let us take advantage of it.”
“Yes, the cemetery,” said Porthos. “Planchet is a very excellent fellow, who makes very excellent preserves; but his house has windows which look out upon the cemetery. And a confoundedly melancholy prospect it is! So this morning—”
“This morning?” said Aramis, more and more excited.
D’Artagnan turned his back to them, and walked to the window, where he began to play a march upon one of the panes of glass.
“Yes, this morning we saw a man buried there.”
“Ah!”
“Very depressing, was it not? I should never be able to live in a house where burials can always be seen from the window. D’Artagnan, on the contrary, seems to like it very much.”
“So D’Artagnan saw it as well?”
“Not simply saw it; he literally never took his eyes off the whole time.”
Aramis started, and turned to look at the musketeer, but the latter was engaged in earnest conversation with Saint-Aignan. Aramis continued to question Porthos, and when he had squeezed all the juice out of this enormous lemon, he threw the peel aside. He turned towards his friend D’Artagnan, and clapping him on the shoulder, when Saint-Aignan had left him, the king’s supper having been announced, said, “D’Artagnan.”