“What is the good fortune that has happened to you? Let us hear it,” said Raoul, with a smile.
“The king has made me a duke,” said the worthy Porthos, with an air of mystery, in the ear of the young man, “a duke by brevet.”
But the asides of Porthos were always loud enough to be heard by everybody. His murmurs were in the diapason of ordinary roaring. Athos heard him, and uttered an exclamation which made Aramis start. The latter took Athos by the arm, and, after having asked Porthos’s permission to say a word to his friend in private, “My dear Athos,” he began, “you see me overwhelmed with grief and trouble.”
“With grief and trouble, my dear friend?” cried the comte; “oh, what?”
“In two words. I have conspired against the king; that conspiracy has failed, and, at this moment, I am doubtless pursued.”
“You are pursued!—a conspiracy! Eh! my friend, what do you tell me?”
“The saddest truth. I am entirely ruined.”
“Well, but Porthos—this title of duke—what does all that mean?”
“That is the subject of my severest pain; that is the deepest of my wounds. I have, believing in infallible success, drawn Porthos into my conspiracy. He threw himself into it, as you know he would do, with all his strength, without knowing what he was about; and now he is as much compromised as myself—as completely ruined as I am.”
“Good God!” And Athos turned towards Porthos, who was smiling complacently.