incessantly thinking how his greatness must be irksome to inferior people.
“If it is a snare,” replied D’Artagnan, “I shall scent it out, be assured. If Mazarin is an Italian, I am a Gascon.”
And D’Artagnan dressed himself in an instant.
Whilst Porthos, still in bed, was hooking on his cloak for him, a second knock at the door was heard.
“Come in,” exclaimed D’Artagnan; and another servant entered.
“From His Eminence, Cardinal Mazarin,” presenting a letter.
D’Artagnan looked at Porthos.
“A complicated affair,” said Porthos; “where will you begin?”