“What, he had done you the honor to remain here?” “Yes, monsieur, in this house; and we are even a little uneasy—” “On what account?” “Of certain expenses he has contracted.” “Well, but whatever expenses he may have incurred, I am sure he is in a condition to pay them.” “Ah, monsieur, you infuse genuine balm into my blood. We have made considerable advances; and this very morning the surgeon declared that if Monsieur Porthos did not pay him, he should look to me, as it was I who had sent for him.” “Porthos is wounded, then?” “I cannot tell you, monsieur.” “What! You cannot tell me? Surely you ought to be able to tell me better than any other person.” “Yes; but in our situation we must not say all we know—particularly as we have been warned that our ears should answer for our tongues.” “Well, can I see Porthos?” “Certainly, monsieur. Take the stairs on your right; go up the first flight and knock at Number One. Only warn him that it is you.” “Why should I do that?” “Because, monsieur, some mischief might happen to you.” “Of what kind, in the name of wonder?” “Monsieur Porthos may imagine you belong to the house, and in a fit of passion might run his sword through you or blow out your brains.” “What have you done to him, then?” “We have asked him for money.” “The devil! Ah, I can understand that. It is a demand that Porthos takes very ill when he is not in funds; but I know he must be so at present.” “We thought so, too, monsieur. As our house is carried on very regularly, and we make out our bills every week, at the end of eight days we presented our account; but it appeared we had chosen an unlucky moment, for at the first word on the subject, he sent us to all the devils. It is true he had been playing the day before.” “Playing the day before! And with whom?” “Lord, who can say, monsieur? With some gentleman who was traveling this way, to whom he proposed a game of _lansquenet_.” “That’s it, then, and the foolish fellow lost all he had?” “Even to his horse, monsieur; for when the gentleman was about to set out, we perceived that his lackey was saddling Monsieur Porthos’s horse, as well as his master’s. When we observed this to him, he told us all to trouble ourselves about our own business, as this horse belonged to him. We also informed Monsieur Porthos of what was going on; but he told us we were scoundrels to doubt a gentleman’s word, and that as he had said the horse was his, it must be so.” “That’s Porthos all over,” murmured D’Artagnan.