“Then you know nothing of the city?”
“Nothing.”
“Well, look!” said Porthos, raising himself in his stirrups, which made the fore-quarters of his horse bend sadly,—“do you see that corner, in the sun, yonder?”
“Yes, I see it plainly.”
“Well, that is the cathedral.”
“Which is called?”
“Saint-Pierre. Now look again—in the faubourg on the left, do you see another cross?”
“Perfectly well.”
“That is Saint-Patern, the parish preferred by Aramis.”
“Indeed!”