"Nevertheless he died of indigestion, in spite of his grace," said D’Artagnan.
"What can you expect?" replied Aramis, in a tone of resignation. "Every man that’s born must fulfil his destiny."
"If it be not an indelicate question," resumed D’Artagnan, "have you grown rich?"
"Oh, Heaven! no. I make about twelve thousand francs a year, without counting a little benefice of a thousand crowns the prince gave me."
"And how do you make your twelve thousand francs? By your poems?"
"No, I have given up poetry, except now and then to write a drinking song, some gay sonnet or some innocent epigram; I compose sermons, my friend."
"What! sermons? Do you preach them?"
"No; I sell them to those of my cloth who wish to become great orators."
"Ah, indeed! and you have not been tempted by the hopes
