“Perhaps you are right,” said Aramis, thoughtfully; “therefore I shall not pledge myself.”
“To them or to us, do you mean, Aramis?”
“To no one. I am a priest,” resumed Aramis. “What have I to do with politics? I am not obliged to read any breviary. I have a jolly little circle of witty abbés and pretty women; everything goes on smoothly, so certainly, dear friend, I shall not meddle in politics.”
“Well, listen, my dear Aramis,” said D’Artagnan; “your philosophy convinces me, on my honor. I don’t know what devil of an insect stung me and made me ambitious. I have a post by which I live; at the death of Monsieur de Tréville, who is old, I may be a captain, which is a very snug berth for a once penniless Gascon. Instead of running after adventures I shall accept an invitation from Porthos; I shall go and shoot on his estate. You know he has estates—Porthos?”
“I should think so, indeed. Ten leagues of wood, of marsh land and valleys; he is lord of the hill and the plain and is now carrying on a suit for his feudal rights against the Bishop of Noyon!”
“Good,” said D’Artagnan to himself. “That’s what I wanted to know. Porthos is in Picardy.”
Then aloud:
“And he has taken his ancient name of Vallon?”
“To which he adds that of Bracieux, an estate which has been a barony, by my troth.”
“So that Porthos will be a baron.”