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Books
The Three Musketeers
Twenty Years Later
The Vicomte De Bragelonne
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Twenty Years Later 44 at Prostate Health
Porthos, "I am a widower and have forty
thousand francs a year. Let us go to breakfast."
"I shall be happy to do so; the morning air has made me
hungry."
"Yes," said Porthos; "my air is excellent."
They went into the chateau; there was nothing but gilding,
high and low; the cornices were gilt, the mouldings were
gilt, the legs and arms of the chairs were gilt. A table,
ready set out, awaited them.
"You see," said Porthos, "this is my usual style."
"Devil take me!" answered DArtagnan, "I wish you joy of it.
The king has nothing like it."
"No," answered Porthos, "I hear it said that he is very
badly fed by the cardinal, Monsieur de Mazarin. Taste this
cutlet, my dear DArtagnan; tis off one of my sheep."
"You have very tender mutton and I wish you joy of it." said
DArtagnan.
"Yes, the sheep are fed in my meadows, which are excellent
pasture."
"Give me another cutlet."
"No, try this hare, which I had killed yesterday in one of
my warrens."
"Zounds! what a flavor!" cried DArtagnan; "ah! they are fed
on thyme only, your hares."
"And how do you like my wine?" asked Porthos; "it is
pleasant, isnt it?"
"Capital!"
"It is nothing, however, but a wine of the country."
"Really?"
"Yes, a small declivity to the south, yonder on my hill,
gives me twenty hogsheads."
"Quite a vineyard, hey?"
Porthos sighed for the fifth time -- DArtagnan had counted
his sighs. He became curious to solve the problem.
"Well now," he said, "it seems, my dear friend, that
something vexes you; you are ill, perhaps? That health,
which ---- "
"Excellent, my dear friend; better than ever. I could kill
an ox with a blow of my fist."
"Well, then, family affairs, perhaps?"
"Family! I have, happily, only myself in the world to care
for."
"But what makes you sigh?"
"My dear fellow," replied Porthos, "to be candid with you, I
am not happy."
"You are not happy, Porthos? You who have chateau, meadows,
mountains, woods -- you who have forty thousand francs a
year -- you -- are -- not -- happy?"
"My dear friend, all those things I have, but I am a hermit
in the midst of superfluity."
"Surrounded, I suppose, only by clodhoppers, with whom you
could not associate."
Porthos turned rather pale and drank off a large glass of
wine.
"No; but just think, there are paltry country squires who
have all some title or another and pretend to go back as far
as Charlemagne, or at least to Hugh Capet. When I first came
here; being the last comer, it was for me to make the first
advances. I made them, but you know, my dear friend, Madame
du Vallon ---- "
Porthos, in pronouncing these words, seemed to gulp down
something.
"Madame du Vallon was of doubtful gentility. She had, in her
first marriage -- I dont think, DArtagnan, I am telling
you anything new -- married a lawyer; they thought that
`nauseous; you can understand thats a word bad enough to
make one kill thirty thousand men. I have killed two, which
has made people hold their tongues, but has not made me
their friend. So that I have no society; I live alone; I am
sick of it -- my mind preys on itself."
DArtagnan smiled. He now saw where the breastplate was
weak, and prepared the blow.
"But now," he said, "that you are a widower, your wifes
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 didnt 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, dont you mean?" cried DArtagnan, finishing his
friends 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 DArtagnan, "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 hes called Mouston," thought DArtagnan; "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
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