On reaching the palace, D’Artagnan sent to his eminence the letter in which he had been ordered to return without delay. He was soon ordered to the presence of the cardinal. “Courage!” he whispered to Porthos, as they proceeded. “Do not be intimidated. Believe me, the eye of the eagle is closed forever. We have only the vulture to deal with. Hold yourself as bolt upright as on the day of the bastion of St. Gervais, and do not bow too low to this Italian; that might give him a poor idea of you.” “Good!” answered Porthos. “Good!” Mazarin was in his study, working at a list of pensions and benefices, of which he was trying to reduce the number. He saw D’Artagnan and Porthos enter with internal pleasure, yet showed no joy in his countenance. “Ah! you, is it? Monsieur le lieutenant, you have been very prompt. ’Tis well. Welcome to ye.” “Thanks, my lord. Here I am at your eminence’s service, as well as Monsieur du Vallon, one of my old friends, who used to conceal his nobility under the name of Porthos.” Porthos bowed to the cardinal. “A magnificent cavalier,” remarked Mazarin. Porthos turned his head to the right and to the left, and drew himself up with a movement full of dignity. “The best swordsman in the kingdom, my lord,” said D’Artagnan. Porthos bowed to his friend. Mazarin was as fond of fine soldiers as, in later times, Frederick of Prussia used to be. He admired the strong hands, the broad shoulders and the steady eye of Porthos. He seemed to see before him the salvation of his administration and of the kingdom, sculptured in flesh and bone. He remembered that the old association of musketeers was composed of four persons. “And your two other friends?” he asked. Porthos opened his mouth, thinking it a good opportunity to put in a word in his turn; D’Artagnan checked him by a glance from the corner of his eye. “They are prevented at this moment, but will join us later.” Mazarin coughed a little. “And this gentleman, being disengaged, takes to the service willingly?” he asked. “Yes, my lord, and from pure devotion to the cause, for Monsieur de Bracieux is rich.” “Rich!” said Mazarin, whom that single word always inspired with a great respect. “Fifty thousand francs a year,” said Porthos. These were the first words he had spoken. “From pure zeal?” resumed Mazarin, with his artful smile; “from pure zeal and devotion then?” “My lord has, perhaps, no faith in those words?” said D’Artagnan. “Have _you_, Monsieur le Gascon?” asked Mazarin, supporting his elbows on his desk and his chin on his hands. “I,” replied the Gascon, “I believe in devotion as a word at one’s baptism, for instance, which naturally comes before one’s proper name; every one is naturally more or less devout, certainly; but there should be at the end of one’s devotion something to gain.” “And your friend, for instance; what does he expect to have at the end of his devotion?”