“Fifty thousand francs a year,” said Porthos.

These were the first words he had spoken.

“From pure zeal?” resumed Mazarin, with his artful smile; “from pure zeal and devotion then?”

“My lord has, perhaps, no faith in those words?” said D’Artagnan.

“Have you, Monsieur le Gascon?” asked Mazarin, supporting his elbows on his desk and his chin on his hands.

“I,” replied the Gascon, “I believe in devotion as a word at one’s baptism, for instance, which naturally comes before one’s proper name; every one is naturally more or less devout, certainly; but there should be at the end of one’s devotion something to gain.”

“And your friend, for instance; what does he expect to have at the end of his devotion?”

“Well, my lord, my friend has three magnificent estates:  that of Vallon, at Corbeil; that of Bracieux, in the Soissonais; and that of Pierrefonds, in the Valois.  Now, my lord, he would like to have one of his three estates erected into a barony.”

“Only that?” said Mazarin, his eyes twinkling with joy on seeing that he could pay for Porthos’s devotion without opening his purse; “only that?  That can be managed.”

“I shall be baron!” explained Porthos, stepping forward.

“I told you so,” said D’Artagnan, checking him with his hand; “and now his eminence confirms it.”

“And you, Monsieur D’Artagnan, what do you want?”

“My lord,” said D’Artagnan, “it is twenty years since Cardinal de Richelieu made me lieutenant.”

“Yes, and you would be gratified if Cardinal Mazarin should make you captain.”

D’Artagnan bowed.

“Well, that is not impossible.  We will see, gentlemen, we will see.  Now, Monsieur de Vallon,” said Mazarin, “what service do you prefer, in the town or in the country?”

Porthos opened his mouth to reply.

“My lord,” said D’Artagnan, “Monsieur de Vallon is like me, he prefers service extraordinary —­ that is to say, enterprises that are considered mad and impossible.”

That boastfulness was not displeasing to Mazarin; he fell into meditation.

“And yet,” he said, “I must admit that I sent for you to appoint you to quiet service; I have certain apprehensions —­ well, what is the meaning of that?”

In fact, a great noise was heard in the ante-chamber; at the same time the door of the study was burst open and a man, covered with dust, rushed into it, exclaiming: 

“My lord the cardinal! my lord the cardinal!”

Mazarin thought that some one was going to assassinate him and he drew back, pushing his chair on the castors.  D’Artagnan and Porthos moved so as to plant themselves between the person entering and the cardinal.

“Well, sir,” exclaimed Mazarin, “what’s the matter? and why do you rush in here, as if you were about to penetrate a crowded market-place?”

“My lord,” replied the messenger, “I wish to speak to your eminence in secret.  I am Monsieur du Poins, an officer in the guards, on duty at the donjon of Vincennes.”