“You really have some distrust, then?” said Porthos.
“Of Aramis, yes, since he has become an abbé. You can’t imagine, my dear fellow, the sort of man he is. He sees us on the road which leads him to a bishopric, and perhaps will not be sorry to get us out of his way.”
“Ah, as regards Aramis, that is another thing,” said Porthos, “and it wouldn’t surprise me at all.”
“Perhaps Monsieur de Beaufort will try, in his turn, to lay hands on us.”
“Nonsense! He had us in his power and he let us go. Besides we can be on our guard; let us take arms, let Planchet post himself behind us with his carbine.”
“Planchet is a Frondeur,” answered D’Artagnan.
“Devil take these civil wars! one can no more now reckon on one’s friends than on one’s footmen,” said Porthos. “Ah! if Mousqueton were here! there’s a fellow who will never desert me!”
“So long as you are rich! Ah! my friend! ’tis not civil war that disunites us. It is that we are each of us twenty years older; it is that the honest emotions of youth have given place to suggestions of interest, whispers of ambition, counsels of selfishness. Yes, you are right; let us go, Porthos, but let us go well armed; were we not to keep the rendezvous, they would declare we were afraid. Halloo! Planchet! here! saddle our horses, take your carbine.”
“Whom are we going to attack, sir?”
“No one; a mere matter of precaution,” answered the Gascon.