The Three Musketeers (Translated by Richard Pevear) - Alexandre Dumas [157]
“Then, too,” Aramis went on, “it breathes of honest passions, you’ll see. Ah, my friends, so we’re returning to Paris? Bravo, I’m ready. We shall see the good Porthos again, so much the better. You don’t believe I missed that great ninny? He’s not one to have sold his horse, not even for a kingdom. I wish I could see him now, astride his beast and in his saddle. I’m sure he’d look like the Great Mogul.”
They made a halt for an hour to give the horses a breather. Aramis settled his account, put Bazin in the wagon with his comrades, and they set out to find Porthos.
They found him on his feet, less pale than d’Artagnan had seen him on his first visit, and seated at a table where, though he was alone, a dinner for four had been laid. This dinner consisted of gallantly trussed meats, choice wines, and superb fruits.
“Ah, pardieu!” he said, getting up, “you’ve come at the perfect time, gentlemen, I’d just gotten to the soup! You shall dine with me.”
“Oho!” said d’Artagnan. “Mousqueton never caught such bottles with his lasso, and here’s a larded fricandeau, and a fillet of beef…”
“I’m recuperating,” said Porthos, “I’m recuperating. Nothing weakens a man like these devilish sprains. Have you ever had a sprain, Athos?”
“Never. Only I remember that, during our scuffle in the rue Férou, I received a sword stroke which, after two weeks or so, produced exactly the same effect.”
“But this dinner wasn’t for you alone, my dear Porthos?” said Aramis.
“No,” said Porthos. “I was expecting some local gentlemen, who just sent me word that they’re not coming. You will replace them, and I’ll lose nothing in the exchange. Ho, there, Mousqueton! Chairs! And double the bottles!”
“Do you know what we’re eating here?” asked Athos, after ten minutes.
“Pardieu!” replied d’Artagnan, “I’m eating veal larded with cardoons and marrow.”
“And I’m eating fillets of lamb,” said Porthos.
“And I’m eating breast of chicken,” said Aramis.
“You’re all mistaken, gentlemen,” replied Athos. “You are eating horse.”
“Come, now!” said d’Artagnan.
“Horse!” cried Aramis with a disgusted grimace.
Porthos alone said nothing.
“Yes, horse. Isn’t it true, Porthos, that we’re eating horse? Maybe even with the caparisons!”
“No, gentlemen, I kept the harness,” said Porthos.
“By heaven, we’re all the same,” said Aramis. “You’d think we passed the word around.”
“What do you want,” said Porthos, “that horse put my visitors to shame, and I didn’t want to humiliate them!”
“Then, too, your duchess is still at the waters, isn’t she?” d’Artagnan picked up.
“Still,” replied Porthos. “Now, by heaven, the governor of the province, one of the gentlemen I was expecting today at dinner, seemed to me to have so strong a desire for the horse that I gave it to him.”
“Gave?” cried d’Artagnan.
“Oh, my God, yes, gave! That’s the word,” said Porthos, “for he was certainly worth a hundred and fifty louis, and the tightwad would only pay me eighty.”
“Without the saddle?” asked Aramis.
“Yes, without the saddle.”
“You’ll notice, gentlemen,” said Athos, “that Porthos has once again made the best deal of us all.”
Then there was a loud burst of laughter, which left poor Porthos quite stricken; but they soon explained the reason for this hilarity to him, and he noisily joined in it, as was his custom.
“So we’re all in funds?” asked d’Artagnan.
“Not for my part,” said Athos. “I found Aramis’s Spanish wine so good that I had sixty bottles loaded into the lackeys’ wagon, which has left me rather out of pocket.”
“And I,” said Aramis, “just imagine, I had given all but my last sou to the church of Montdidier and the Jesuits of Amiens. I had also made promises that I had to keep, masses ordered for myself and for you, gentlemen, which will be said, gentlemen, and from which I don’t doubt we shall benefit wonderfully.”
“And I,” said Porthos, “do you think my sprain cost me nothing? Not to mention Mousqueton’s wound, for which I was obliged to have the surgeon come twice a day, who made me pay double for his visits on the pretext that that imbecile Mousqueton had managed