“But now,” he said, “that you are a widower, your wife’s connection cannot injure you.” “Yes, but understand me; not being of a race of historic fame, like the De Courcys, who were content to be plain sirs, or the Rohans, who didn’t wish to be dukes, all these people, who are all either vicomtes or comtes go before me at church in all the ceremonies, and I can say nothing to them. Ah! If I only were a——” “A baron, don’t you mean?” cried D’Artagnan, finishing his friend’s sentence. “Ah!” cried Porthos; “would I were but a baron!” “Well, my friend, I am come to give you this very title which you wish for so much.” Porthos gave a start that shook the room; two or three bottles fell and were broken. Mousqueton ran thither, hearing the noise. Porthos waved his hand to Mousqueton to pick up the bottles. “I am glad to see,” said D’Artagnan, “that you have still that honest lad with you.” “He is my steward,” replied Porthos; “he will never leave me. Go away now, Mouston.” “So he’s called Mouston,” thought D’Artagnan; “’tis too long a word to pronounce ‘Mousqueton.’” “Well,” he said aloud, “let us resume our conversation later, your people may suspect something; there may be spies about. You can suppose, Porthos, that what I have to say relates to most important matters.” “Devil take them; let us walk in the park,” answered Porthos, “for the sake of digestion.” “Egad,” said D’Artagnan, “the park is like everything else and there are as many fish in your pond as rabbits in your warren; you are a happy man, my friend since you have not only retained your love of the chase, but acquired that of fishing.” “My friend,” replied Porthos, “I leave fishing to Mousqueton,—it is a vulgar pleasure,—but I shoot sometimes; that is to say, when I am dull, and I sit on one of those marble seats, have my gun brought to me, my favorite dog, and I shoot rabbits.” “Really, how very amusing!” “Yes,” replied Porthos, with a sigh, “it _is_ amusing.” D’Artagnan now no longer counted the sighs. They were innumerable. “However, what had you to say to me?” he resumed; “let us return to that subject.” “With pleasure,” replied D’Artagnan; “I must, however, first frankly tell you that you must change your mode of life.” “How?” “Go into harness again, gird on your sword, run after adventures, and leave as in old times a little of your fat on the roadside.” “Ah! hang it!” said Porthos. “I see you are spoiled, dear friend; you are corpulent, your arm has no longer that movement of which the late cardinal’s guards have so many proofs.” “Ah! my fist is strong enough I swear,” cried Porthos, extending a hand like a shoulder of mutton. “So much the better.” “Are we then to go to war?” “By my troth, yes.” “Against whom?” “Are you a politician, friend?” “Not in the least.” “Are you for Mazarin or for the princes?” “I am for no one.” “That is to say, you are for us. Well, I tell you that I come to you from the cardinal.”