“No doubt, relative to yourself, Porthos, who are a millionaire; but you shall judge. I had laid by twenty-five thousand livres.”
“That’s pretty well,” said Porthos, with an affable air.
“And,” continued D’Artagnan, “on the twenty-eighth of last month I added to it two hundred thousand livres more.”
Porthos opened his large eyes, which eloquently demanded of the musketeer, “Where the devil did you steal such a sum as that, my dear friend?” “Two hundred thousand livres!” cried he, at length.
“Yes; which, with the twenty-five I had, and twenty thousand I have about me, complete the sum of two hundred and forty-five thousand livres.”
“But tell me, whence comes this fortune?”
“I will tell you all about it presently, dear friend; but as you have, in the first place, many things to tell me yourself, let us have my recital in its proper order.”
“Bravo!” said Porthos; “then we are both rich. But what can I have to relate to you?”
“You have to relate to me how Aramis came to be named—”
“Ah! bishop of Vannes.”