LITMIR.BIZ

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      “Unless he is playing you a trick, the sly fellow!”

      “Oh!”

      “You know that Aramis is as sly as a fox.”

      “Yes, but to play me a trick—”

      “Listen: in the first place, he puts you under a sort of sequestration.”

      “He sequestrates me! Do you mean to say I am sequestrated?”

      “I think so.”

      “I wish you would have the goodness to prove that to me.”

      “Nothing easier. Do you ever go out?”

      “Never.”

      “Do you ever ride on horseback?”

      “Never.”

      “Are your friends allowed to come and see you?”

      “Never.”

      “Very well, then; never to go out, never to ride on horseback, never to be allowed to see your friends, that is called being sequestrated.”

      “But why should Aramis sequestrate me?” inquired Porthos.

      “Come,” said D’Artagnan, “be frank, Porthos.”

      “As gold.”

      “It was Aramis who drew the plan of the fortifications at Belle-Isle, was it not?”

      Porthos colored as he said, “Yes; but that was all he did.”

      “Exactly, and my own opinion is that it was no very great affair after all.”

      “That is mine, too.”

      “Very good; I am delighted we are of the same opinion.”

      “He never even came to Belle-Isle,” said Porthos.

      “There now, you see.”

      “It was I who went to Vannes, as you may have seen.”

      “Say rather, as I did see. Well, that is precisely the state of the case, my dear Porthos. Aramis, who only drew the plans, wishes to pass himself off as the engineer, whilst you, who, stone by stone, built the wall, the citadel, and the bastions, he wishes to reduce to the rank of a mere builder.”

      “By builder, you mean mason, perhaps?”

      “Mason; the very word.”

      “Plasterer, in fact?”

      “Hodman?”

      “Exactly.”

      “Oh, oh! my dear Aramis, you seem to think you are only five and twenty years of age still.”

      “Yes, and that is not all, for he believes you are fifty.”

      “I should have amazingly liked to have seen him at work.”

      “Yes, indeed.”

      “A fellow who has got the gout?”

      “Yes.”

      “Who has lost three of his teeth?”

      “Four.”

      “While I, look at mine.” And Porthos, opening his large mouth very wide, displayed two rows of teeth not quite as white as snow, but even, hard, and sound as ivory.

      “You can hardly believe, Porthos,” said D’Artagnan, “what a fancy the king has for good teeth. Yours decide me; I will present you to the king myself.”

      “You?”

      “Why not? Do you think I have less credit at court than Aramis?”

      “Oh, no!”

      “Do you think I have the slightest pretensions upon the fortifications at Belle-Isle?”

      “Certainly not.”

      “It is your own interest alone which would induce me to do it.”

      “I don’t doubt it in the least.”

      “Well, I am the intimate friend of the king; and a proof of that is, that whenever there is anything disagreeable to tell him, it is I who have to do it.”

      “But, dear D’Artagnan, if you present me—”

      “Well!”

      “Aramis will be angry.”

      “With me?”

      “No, with me.”

      “Bah! whether he or I present you, since you are to be presented, what does it matter?”

      “They were going to get me some clothes made.”

      “Your own are splendid.”

      “Oh! those I had ordered were far more beautiful.”

      “Take care: the king likes simplicity.”

      “In that case, I will be simple. But what will M. Fouquet say, when he learns that I have left?”

      “Are you a prisoner, then, on parole?”

      “No, not quite that. But I promised him I would not leave without letting him know.”

      “Wait a minute, we shall return to that presently. Have you anything to do here?”

      “I, nothing: nothing of any importance, at least.”

      “Unless, indeed, you are Aramis’s representative for something of importance.”

      “By no means.”

      “What I tell you—pray, understand that—is out of interest for you. I suppose, for instance, that you are commissioned to send messages and letters to him?”

      “Ah! letters—yes. I send certain letters to him.”

      “Where?”

      “To Fontainebleau.”

      “Have you any letters, then?”

      “But—”

      “Nay, let me speak. Have you any letters, I say?”

      “I have just received one for him.”

      “Interesting?”

      “I suppose so.”

      “You do not read them, then?”

      “I am not at all curious,” said Porthos, as he drew out of his pocket the soldier’s letter which Porthos had not read, but D’Artagnan had.

      “Do you know what to do with it?” said D’Artagnan.

      “Of course; do as I always do, send it to him.”

      “Not so.”

      “Why not? Keep it, then?”

      “Did they not tell you that this letter was important?”

      “Very important.”

      “Well, you must take it yourself to Fontainebleau.”

      “To Aramis?”

      “Yes.”

      “Very good.”

      “And since the king is there—”

      “You will profit by that.”

      “I shall profit by the opportunity to present you to the king.”

      “Ah! D’Artagnan, there is no one like you for expedients.”

      “Therefore, instead of forwarding to our friend any messages, which may

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