“I am called Georges de Biscarrat.”
“Oh!” cried Porthos, in his turn. “Biscarrat! Do you remember that name, Aramis?”
“Biscarrat!” reflected the bishop. “It seems to me—”
“Try to recollect, monsieur,” said the officer.
“Pardieu! that won’t take me long,” said Porthos. “Biscarrat—called Cardinal—one of the four who interrupted us on the day on which we formed our friendship with D’Artagnan, sword in hand.”
“Precisely, gentlemen.”
“The only one,” cried Aramis, eagerly, “we could not scratch.”
“Consequently, a capital blade?” said the prisoner.
“That’s true! most true!” exclaimed both friends together. “Ma foi! Monsieur Biscarrat, we are delighted to make the acquaintance of such a brave man’s son.”
Biscarrat pressed the hands held out by the two musketeers. Aramis looked at Porthos as much as to say, “Here is a man who will help us,” and without delay,—“Confess, monsieur,” said he, “that it is good to have once been a good man.”