“The devil!” said d’Artagnan, “you are insupportable. If the letter must be written under your censure, my faith, I renounce the task.”
“And you will do right. Handle the musket and the sword, my dear fellow. You will come off splendidly at those two exercises; but pass the pen over to Monsieur Abbé. That’s his province.”
“Ay, ay!” said Porthos; “pass the pen to Aramis, who writes theses in Latin.”
“Well, so be it,” said d’Artagnan. “Draw up this note for us, Aramis; but by our Holy Father the Pope, cut it short, for I shall prune you in my turn, I warn you.”
“I ask no better,” said Aramis, with that ingenious air of confidence which every poet has in himself; “but let me be properly acquainted with the subject. I have heard here and there that this sister-in-law was a hussy. I have obtained proof of it by listening to her conversation with the cardinal.”
“Lower! sacrebleu! ” said Athos.
“But,” continued Aramis, “the details escape me.”
“And me also,” said Porthos.
D’Artagnan and Athos looked at each other for some time in silence. At length Athos, after serious reflection and becoming more pale than usual, made a sign of assent to d’Artagnan, who by it understood he was at liberty to speak.
“Well, this is what you have to say,” said d’Artagnan: “ My Lord, your sister-in-law is an infamous woman, who wished to have you killed that she might inherit your wealth; but she could not marry your brother, being already married in France, and having been— ” d’Artagnan stopped, as if seeking for the word, and looked at Athos.