“Yes, monsieur; jovial, as all people are who carry nothing on their minds, or, for that matter, in their heads. Oh! I can see it is quite another sort of thing with you,” continued D’Artagnan; “I can read in your eyes all sorts of genius.”
“Oh, monsieur!”
“Come, confess one thing.”
“What is that?”
“That you are a learned man.”
“Ma foi! monsieur.”
“Hein?”
“Almost.”
“Come, then!”
“I am an author.”