“He is the architect of the house.”
“Of what house?”
“Of M. Fouquet’s house.”
“Ah! ah!” cried D’Artagnan, “you are of the household of M. Fouquet, then, Porthos?”
“I! what do you mean by that?” said the topographer, blushing to the top of his ears.
“Why, you say the house, when speaking of Belle-Isle, as if you were speaking of the chateau of Pierrefonds.”
Porthos bit his lips. “Belle-Isle, my friend,” said he, “belongs to M. Fouquet, does it not?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
“As Pierrefonds belongs to me?”
“I told you I believed so; there are no two words to that.”