“My Lord, do you remember the little goat pasture of the Luxembourg?”
“Good, the Luxembourg! One might believe this is an allusion to the queen-mother! That’s ingenious,” said Athos.
“Well, then, we will put simply, My Lord, do you remember a certain little enclosure where your life was spared?”
“My dear D’Artagnan, you will never make anything but a very bad secretary. Where your life was spared! For shame! that’s unworthy. A man of spirit is not to be reminded of such services. A benefit reproached is an offense committed.”
“The devil!” said D’Artagnan, “you are insupportable. If the letter must be written under your censure, my faith, I renounce the task.”
“And you will do right. Handle the musket and the sword, my dear fellow. You will come off splendidly at those two exercises; but pass the pen over to Monsieur Abbé. That’s his province.”
“Ay, ay!” said Porthos; “pass the pen to Aramis, who writes theses in Latin.”
“Well, so be it,” said D’Artagnan. “Draw up this note for us, Aramis; but by our Holy Father the Pope, cut it short, for I shall prune you in my turn, I warn you.”
“I ask no better,” said Aramis, with that ingenious air of confidence which every poet has in himself; “but let me be properly acquainted with the subject. I have heard here and there that this sister-in-law was a hussy. I have obtained proof of it by listening to her conversation with the cardinal.”
“Lower! sacré bleu!” said Athos.