“Did you ever see a man there who is accustomed to walk about with a ruler in his hand?”
“No; but I might have seen him there, if he really walked there.”
“Well, that gentleman is M. Boulingrin.”
“Who is M. Boulingrin?”
“Now, we are coming to it. If, when this gentleman is walking with a ruler in his hand, any one should ask me,—‘Who is M. Boulingrin?’ I should reply: ‘He is the architect of the house.’ Well! M. Getard is the Boulingrin of M. Fouquet. But he has nothing to do with the fortifications, which are my department alone; do you understand? mine, absolutely mine.”
“Ah! Porthos,” cried D’Artagnan, letting his arms fall as a conquered man gives up his sword; “ah! my friend, you are not only a herculean topographer, you are, still further, a dialectician of the first water.”
“Is it not powerfully reasoned?” said Porthos: and he puffed and blew like the conger which D’Artagnan had let slip from his hand.
“And now,” said D’Artagnan, “that shabby-looking man, who accompanies M. Getard, is he also of the household of M. Fouquet?”
“Oh! yes,” said Porthos, with contempt; “it is one M. Jupenet, or Juponet, a sort of poet.”
“Who is come to establish himself here?”