“Well, my dear friend, win it—it is at the point of your sword. We shall not interfere with each other—your object is a title; mine, money. If I can get enough to rebuild Artagnan, which my ancestors, impoverished by the Crusades, allowed to fall into ruins, and to buy thirty acres of land about it, that is all I wish. I shall retire and die tranquilly—at home.” “For my part,” said Porthos, “I desire to be made a baron.” “You shall be one.” “And have you not seen any of our other friends?” “Yes, I have seen Aramis.” “And what does he wish? To be a bishop?” “Aramis,” answered D’Artagnan, who did not wish to undeceive Porthos, “Aramis, fancy, has become a monk and a Jesuit, and lives like a bear. My offers did not arouse him,—did not even tempt him.” “So much the worse! He was a clever man. And Athos?” “I have not yet seen him. Do you know where I shall find him?” “Near Blois. He is called Bragelonne. Only imagine, my dear friend. Athos, who was of as high birth as the emperor and who inherits one estate which gives him the title of comte, what is he to do with all those dignities—the Comte de la Fère, Comte de Bragelonne?” “And he has no children with all these titles?” “Ah!” said Porthos, “I have heard that he had adopted a young man who resembles him greatly.” “What, Athos? Our Athos, who was as virtuous as Scipio? Have you seen him? “No.” “Well, I shall see him to-morrow and tell him about you; but I’m afraid, _entre nous_, that his liking for wine has aged and degraded him.” “Yes, he used to drink a great deal,” replied Porthos. “And then he was older than any of us,” added D’Artagnan. “Some years only. His gravity made him look older than he was.” “Well then, if we can get Athos, all will be well. If we cannot, we will do without him. We two are worth a dozen.” “Yes,” said Porthos, smiling at the remembrance of his former exploits; “but we four, altogether, would be equal to thirty-six, more especially as you say the work will not be child’s play. Will it last long?” “By’r Lady! two or three years perhaps.” “So much the better,” cried Porthos. “You have no idea, my friend, how my bones ache since I came here. Sometimes on a Sunday, I take a ride in the fields and on the property of my neighbours, in order to pick up a nice little quarrel, which I am really in want of, but nothing happens. Either they respect or they fear me, which is more likely, but they let me trample down the clover with my dogs, insult and obstruct every one, and I come back still more weary and low-spirited, that’s all. At any rate, tell me: there’s more chance of fighting in Paris, is there not?”