“Well, then,” said Athos, “what are your schemes? what do you propose?”
“Zounds! nothing more than natural. You live on your estate, happy in golden mediocrity. Porthos has, perhaps, sixty thousand francs income. Aramis has always fifty duchesses quarreling over the priest, as they quarreled formerly over the musketeer; but I—what have I in the world? I have worn my cuirass these twenty years, kept down in this inferior rank, without going forward or backward, hardly half living. In fact, I am dead. Well! when there is some idea of being resuscitated, you say he’s a scoundrel, an impudent fellow, a miser, a bad master! By Jove! I am of your opinion, but find me a better one or give me the means of living.”
Athos was for a few moments thoughtful.
“Good! D’Artagnan is for Mazarin,” he said to himself.
From that moment he grew very guarded.
On his side D’Artagnan became more cautious also.
“You spoke to me,” Athos resumed, “of Porthos; have you persuaded him to seek his fortune? But he has wealth, I believe, already.”
“Doubtless he has. But such is man, we always want something more than we already have.”
“What does Porthos wish for?”
“To be a baron.”