The Three Musketeers (Translated by Richard Pevear) - Alexandre Dumas [21]
This affirmation seemed to settle all doubts concerning the baldric; they continued to admire it, but no longer talked about it; and by one of those quick turnabouts of thought, the conversation suddenly went on to another subject.
“What do you think about the story Chalais’s equerry tells?”17 asked another musketeer, not questioning anyone directly, but on the contrary addressing them all.
“And what story does he tell?” asked Porthos in a self-important tone.
“He says he found Rochefort, the cardinal’s tool, in Brussels, disguised as a Capuchin. Thanks to this disguise, the cursed Rochefort played M. de Laigues18 for the ninny he is.”
“A real ninny,” said Porthos. “But is it certain?”
“I got it from Aramis,” replied the musketeer.
“Really?”
“Ah, you know it very well, Porthos,” said Aramis. “I told it to you yesterday, so let’s not talk about it anymore.”
“Let’s not talk about it anymore—that’s your opinion,” Porthos picked up. “Let’s not talk about it anymore! Damn, that’s a quick end to it! Why, the cardinal has a man spied on, has his correspondence stolen by a traitor, a brigand, a scoundrel; with the aid of that spy and thanks to that correspondence, he has Chalais’s throat cut, under the stupid pretext that he wanted to kill the king and marry Monsieur19 to the queen! Nobody knew a word of this riddle, you informed us of it yesterday, to everyone’s great satisfaction, and while we’re still all astounded by this news, you come today and say: ‘Let’s not talk about it anymore.’”
“Let’s talk about it, then, since you want to,” Aramis patiently replied.
“This Rochefort,” cried Porthos, “would spend a nasty moment with me, if I were poor Chalais’s equerry.”
“And you would spend a sorry quarter of an hour with the red duke,” replied Aramis.
“Ah! the red duke! Bravo, bravo—the red duke!” responded Porthos, clapping his hands and nodding in approval. “The ‘red duke’ is charming. I’ll spread the word, my dear, rest assured. He’s a wit, this Aramis! Too bad you didn’t follow your vocation, my dear! What a delightful abbé you’d have made!”
“Oh, it’s just a momentary delay,” replied Aramis. “Some day I’ll become one. You know very well, Porthos, that I’ve continued studying theology for that.”
“He’ll do it as he says,” Porthos picked up, “that is, sooner or later.”
“Sooner,” said Aramis.
“He’s just waiting for one thing to decide on it entirely and take back the cassock that’s hanging behind his uniform,” said one musketeer.
“And what thing is he waiting for?” asked another.
“He’s waiting for the queen to produce an heir to the Crown of France.”
“Let’s not joke about that, gentlemen,” said Porthos. “Thank God, the queen is still of an age to produce one.”
“They say that M. de Buckingham20 is in France,” Aramis picked up with a sardonic laugh, which gave to this seemingly simple phrase a rather scandalous significance.
“Aramis, my friend, this time you’re wrong,” interrupted Porthos, “and your compulsive wit always takes you beyond bounds. If M. de Tréville could hear you, you wouldn’t speak so unfittingly.”
“Are you reading me a lesson, Porthos?” cried Aramis, in whose gentle eye lightning suddenly seemed to flash.
“My dear, be a musketeer or an abbé. Be one or the other, but not one and the other,” replied Porthos. “Look, Athos told you the other day: you sup from all troughs. Ah, let’s not get angry, I beg you, it would be useless, you know very well what’s been agreed among you, Athos, and me. You call on Mme d’Aiguillon and pay court to her; you call on Mme de Bois-Tracy, the cousin of Mme de Chevreuse,21 and you pass for being well advanced in the lady’s good graces. Oh, my God, don’t confess your happiness, no one’s asking you your secrets, we all know your discretion! But since you do possess that virtue, devil take it, use it with regard