"Yes; about in the same manner," said another Musketeer, "that I
bought this new purse with what my mistress put into the old
one."

"It's true, though," said Porthos; "and the proof is that I paid
twelve pistoles for it."

The wonder was increased, though the doubt continued to exist.

"Is it not true, Aramis?" said Porthos, turning toward another
Musketeer.

This other Musketeer formed a perfect contrast to his
interrogator, who had just designated him by the name of Aramis.
He was a stout man, of about two- or three-and-twenty, with an
open, ingenuous countenance, a black, mild eye, and cheeks rosy
and downy as an autumn peach. His delicate mustache marked a
perfectly straight line upon his upper lip; he appeared to dread
to lower his hands lest their veins should swell, and he pinched
the tips of his ears from time to time to preserve their delicate
pink transparency. Habitually he spoke little and slowly, bowed
frequently, laughed without noise, showing his teeth, which were
fine and of which, as the rest of his person, he appeared to take
great care. He answered the appeal of his friend by an
affirmative nod of the head.

This affirmation appeared to dispel all doubts with regard to the
baldric. They continued to admire it, but said no more about it;
and with a rapid change of thought, the conversation passed
suddenly to another subject.