"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 don't think, D'Artagnan, I am telling you anything
new--married a lawyer; they thought that 'nauseous;' you can understand
that's 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."

D'Artagnan smiled. He now saw where the breastplate was weak, and
prepared the blow.

"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