Aramis paused.
“Well? what?” asked his friend.
“Well, I must mortify myself. I must confess that I was mistaken. Monsieur de Mazarin is not a man of genius, as I thought, he is a man of no origin—once a servant of Cardinal Bentivoglio, and he got on by intrigue. He is an upstart, a man of no name, who will only be the tool of a party in France. He will amass wealth, he will injure the king’s revenue and pay to himself the pensions which Richelieu paid to others. He is neither a gentleman in manner nor in feeling, but a sort of buffoon, a punchinello, a pantaloon. Do you know him? I do not.”
“Hem!” said D’Artagnan, “there is some truth in what you say.”
“Ah! it fills me with pride to find that, thanks to a common sort of penetration with which I am endowed, I am approved by a man like you, fresh from the court.”
“But you speak of him, not of his party, his resources.”
“It is true—the queen is for him.”
“Something in his favor.”
“But he will never have the king.”
“A mere child.”