“And what does he say?” asked Porthos, in a self-sufficient tone.

“He relates that he met at Brussels Rochefort, the AME DAMNEE of the cardinal disguised as a Capuchin, and that this cursed Rochefort, thanks to his disguise, had tricked Monsieur de Laigues, like a ninny as he is.”

“A ninny, indeed!” said Porthos; “but is the matter certain?”

“I had it from Aramis,” replied the Musketeer.

“Indeed?”

“Why, you knew it, Porthos,” said Aramis.  “I told you of it yesterday.  Let us say no more about it.”

“Say no more about it?  That’s your opinion!” replied Porthos.

“Say no more about it!  Peste!  You come to your conclusions quickly.  What!  The cardinal sets a spy upon a gentleman, has his letters stolen from him by means of a traitor, a brigand, a rascal-has, with the help of this spy and thanks to this correspondence, Chalais’s throat cut, under the stupid pretext that he wanted to kill the king and marry Monsieur to the queen!  Nobody knew a word of this enigma.  You unraveled it yesterday to the great satisfaction of all; and while we are still gaping with wonder at the news, you come and tell us today, ’Let us say no more about it.’”

“Well, then, let us talk about it, since you desire it,” replied Aramis, patiently.

“This Rochefort,” cried Porthos, “if I were the esquire of poor Chalais, should pass a minute or two very uncomfortably with me.”

“And you—­you would pass rather a sad quarter-hour with the Red Duke,” replied Aramis.

“Oh, the Red Duke!  Bravo!  Bravo!  The Red Duke!” cried Porthos, clapping his hands and nodding his head.  “The Red Duke is capital.  I’ll circulate that saying, be assured, my dear fellow.  Who says this Aramis is not a wit?  What a misfortune it is you did not follow your first vocation; what a delicious abbe you would have made!”

“Oh, it’s only a temporary postponement,” replied Aramis; “I shall be one someday.  You very well know, Porthos, that I continue to study theology for that purpose.”

“He will be one, as he says,” cried Porthos; “he will be one, sooner or later.”

“Sooner.” said Aramis.

“He only waits for one thing to determine him to resume his cassock, which hangs behind his uniform,” said another Musketeer.

“What is he waiting for?” asked another.

“Only till the queen has given an heir to the crown of France.”

“No jesting upon that subject, gentlemen,” said Porthos; “thank God the queen is still of an age to give one!”

“They say that Monsieur de Buckingham is in France,” replied Aramis, with a significant smile which gave to this sentence, apparently so simple, a tolerably scandalous meaning.

“Aramis, my good friend, this time you are wrong,” interrupted Porthos.  “Your wit is always leading you beyond bounds; if Monsieur de Treville heard you, you would repent of speaking thus.”