“Oh! do not be afraid.; there is no man whom I love better than Porthos, because he is so simple-minded and good-natured. Porthos is so straightforward in everything. Since I have become a bishop, I have looked for these primeval natures, which make me love truth and hate intrigue.”
D’Artagnan stroked his mustache, but said nothing.
“I saw Porthos and again cultivated his acquaintance; his own time hanging idly on his hands, his presence recalled my earlier and better days without engaging me in any present evil. I sent for Porthos to come to Vannes. M. Fouquet, whose regard for me is very great, having learnt that Porthos and I were attached to each other by old ties of friendship, promised him increase of rank at the earliest promotion, and that is the whole secret.”
“I shall not abuse your confidence,” said D’Artagnan.
“I am sure of that, my dear friend; no one has a finer sense of honor than yourself.”
“I flatter myself that you are right, Aramis.”
“And now”—and here the prelate looked searchingly and scrutinizingly at his friend—“now let us talk of ourselves and for ourselves; will you become one of M. Fouquet’s friends? Do not interrupt me until you know what that means.”
“Well, I am listening.”
“Will you become a marechal of France, peer, duke, and the possessor of a duchy, with a million of francs?”
“But, my friend,” replied D’Artagnan, “what must one do to get all that?”