“Surrounded, I suppose, only by clodhoppers, with whom you could not associate.”
Porthos turned rather pale and drank off a large glass of wine.
“No; but just think, there are paltry country squires who have all some title or another and pretend to go back as far as Charlemagne, or at least to Hugh Capet. When I first came here; being the last comer, it was for me to make the first advances. I made them, but you know, my dear friend, Madame du Vallon——”
Porthos, in pronouncing these words, seemed to gulp down something.
“Madame du Vallon was of doubtful gentility. She had, in her first marriage—I don’t think, D’Artagnan, I am telling you anything new—married a lawyer; they thought that ‘nauseous;’ you can understand that’s a word bad enough to make one kill thirty thousand men. I have killed two, which has made people hold their tongues, but has not made me their friend. So that I have no society; I live alone; I am sick of it—my mind preys on itself.”
D’Artagnan smiled. He now saw where the breastplate was weak, and prepared the blow.
“But now,” he said, “that you are a widower, your wife’s connection cannot injure you.”
“Yes, but understand me; not being of a race of historic fame, like the De Courcys, who were content to be plain sirs, or the Rohans, who didn’t wish to be dukes, all these people, who are all either vicomtes or comtes go before me at church in all the ceremonies, and I can say nothing to them. Ah! If I only were a——”
“A baron, don’t you mean?” cried D’Artagnan, finishing his friend’s sentence.
“Ah!” cried Porthos; “would I were but a baron!”