The Three Musketeers (Translated by Richard Pevear) - Alexandre Dumas [133]
“And have you delivered that reply to your guest?”
“We took great care not to: he would have seen how we carried out his commission.”
“So he’s still waiting for his money?”
“Oh, my God, yes! He wrote again yesterday, but this time it was his domestic who put the letter in the post.”
“And you say the procureuse is old and ugly!”
“Fifty at least, Monsieur, and not at all pretty, so Pathaud says.”
“In that case, don’t worry, she’ll let herself soften. Besides, Porthos can’t owe you much.”
“How do you mean, not much? Twenty pistoles already, not counting the doctor. Oh, he denies himself nothing, not him; one can see he’s used to good living.”
“Well, if his mistress abandons him, he’ll find friends, I assure you. And so, my dear host, don’t have any qualms, and go on giving him all the care his condition demands.”
“Monsieur has promised me not to speak of the procureuse and not to say a word about the wound.”
“It’s agreed; you have my word.”
“Oh, it’s just that he’d kill me, you see!”
“Don’t be afraid. He’s not such a devil as he seems.”
As he said these words, d’Artagnan went up the stairs, leaving his host a little more reassured regarding two things he seemed very attached to: his credit and his life.
At the top of the stairs, on the most conspicuous door of the corridor, a gigantic number 1 was drawn in black ink. D’Artagnan knocked once, and, at the invitation to move on that came to him from inside, he went in.
Porthos was lying in bed and playing a game of lansquenet with Mousqueton, to keep his hand in, while a spit loaded with partridges turned in front of the fire, and at either corner of the huge fireplace two pots simmered on chafing dishes, giving off a combined odor of stewed hare and stewed fish that delighted the nostrils. What’s more, the top of a writing desk and the marble of a chest of drawers were covered with empty bottles.
At the sight of his friend, Porthos let out a great cry of joy, and Mousqueton, rising respectfully, yielded him his place and went to have a look at the two pots, of which he seemed to have personal oversight.
“Ah, pardieu, it’s you!” Porthos said to d’Artagnan. “Welcome, welcome, and excuse me if I don’t come to greet you. But,” he added, looking at d’Artagnan with a certain anxiety, “do you know what happened to me?”
“No.”
“The host didn’t tell you anything?”
“I asked after you and came straight up.”
Porthos seemed to breathe more freely.
“And what did happen to you, my dear Porthos?” d’Artagnan went on.
“What happened to me was that, in lunging at my adversary, to whom I had already delivered three strokes, and whom I wanted to finish off with the fourth, my foot slipped on a stone, and I sprained my knee.”
“Really?”
“Word of honor! Luckily for the rascal, for I’d wouldn’t have left him otherwise than dead on the spot, I guarantee you.”
“And what became of him?”
“Oh, I have no idea! He’d had enough and left without further ado. But you, my dear d’Artagnan, what’s happened with you?”
“And so,” d’Artagnan went on, “it’s that sprain, my dear Porthos, that keeps you in bed?”
“Ah, my God, yes, that’s all! Anyhow, in a few days I’ll be on my feet.”
“Why, then, didn’t you have yourself transported to Paris? You must be excruciatingly bored here.”
“That was my intention; but, my dear friend, there’s something I must confess to you.”
“What?”
“It’s that, since I was excruciatingly bored, as you say, and I had the seventy-five pistoles that you gave me in my pocket, for the sake of distraction I invited a passing gentleman up and proposed that we have a game of cards. He accepted and, by heaven, my seventy-five pistoles went from my pocket to his, not to mention my horse, which he took into the bargain. But what about you, my dear d’Artagnan?”
“What do you want, my dear Porthos, you can’t have all the privileges. You know the saying: ‘Lucky in love, unlucky at cards.’ You’re too lucky in love for the cards not to