“Why, yes, monsieur, M. Fouquet has the walls of the castle repaired every year.”
“It is in ruins, then?”
“It is old.”
“Thank you.”
“The fact is,” said D’Artagnan to himself, “nothing is more natural; every proprietor has a right to repair his own property. It would be like telling me I was fortifying the Image-de-Notre-Dame, when I was simply obliged to make repairs. In good truth, I believe false reports have been made to his majesty, and he is very likely to be in the wrong.”
“You must confess,” continued he then, aloud, and addressing the fisherman—for his part of a suspicious man was imposed upon him by the object even of his mission—“you must confess, my dear monsieur, that these stones travel in a very curious fashion.”
“How so?” said the fisherman.
“They come from Nantes or Paimboeuf by the Loire, do they not?”
“With the tide.”
“That is convenient,—I don’t say it is not; but why do they not go straight from Saint-Nazaire to Belle-Isle?”