“One more cup of wine to your health,” said he, drinking himself. From one subject to another the chat with the officer was prolonged. He was an intelligent gentleman, and suffered himself to be led on by the charm of Aramis’s wit and Porthos’s cordial bonhomie.
“Pardon me,” said he, “if I address a question to you; but men who are in their sixth bottle have a clear right to forget themselves a little.”
“Address it!” cried Porthos; “address it!”
“Speak,” said Aramis.
“Were you not, gentlemen, both in the musketeers of the late king?”
“Yes, monsieur, and amongst the best of them, if you please,” said Porthos.
“That is true; I should say even the best of all soldiers, messieurs, if I did not fear to offend the memory of my father.”
“Of your father?” cried Aramis.
“Do you know what my name is?”
“Ma foi! no, monsieur; but you can tell us, and—”