“The king has made me a duke,” said the worthy Porthos, with an air of mystery, in the ear of the young man, “a duke bybrevet.”

But the asides of Porthos were always loud enough to be heard by everybody.

His murmurs were in the diapason of ordinary roaring. Athos heard him, and uttered an exclamation which made Aramis start. The latter took Athos by the arm, and, after having asked Porthos’s permission to say a word to his friend in private, “My dear Athos,” he began, “you see me overwhelmed with grief and trouble.”

“With grief and trouble, my dear friend?” cried the comte; “oh, what?”

“In two words. I have conspired against the king; that conspiracy has failed, and, at this moment, I am doubtless pursued.”