“Ah, _pardieu!_ Is that you?” said Porthos to D’Artagnan. “You are right welcome. Excuse my not coming to meet you; but,” added he, looking at D’Artagnan with a certain degree of uneasiness, “you know what has happened to me?” “No.” “Has the host told you nothing, then?” “I asked after you, and came up as soon as I could.” Porthos seemed to breathe more freely. “And what has happened to you, my dear Porthos?” continued D’Artagnan. “Why, on making a thrust at my adversary, whom I had already hit three times, and whom I meant to finish with the fourth, I put my foot on a stone, slipped, and strained my knee.” “Truly?” “Honor! Luckily for the rascal, for I should have left him dead on the spot, I assure you.” “And what has became of him?” “Oh, I don’t know; he had enough, and set off without waiting for the rest. But you, my dear D’Artagnan, what has happened to you?” “So that this strain of the knee,” continued D’Artagnan, “my dear Porthos, keeps you in bed?” “My God, that’s all. I shall be about again in a few days.” “Why did you not have yourself conveyed to Paris? You must be cruelly bored here.” “That was my intention; but, my dear friend, I have one thing to confess to you.” “What’s that?” “It is that as I was cruelly bored, as you say, and as I had the seventy-five pistoles in my pocket which you had distributed to me, in order to amuse myself I invited a gentleman who was traveling this way to walk up, and proposed a cast of dice. He accepted my challenge, and, my faith, my seventy-five pistoles passed from my pocket to his, without reckoning my horse, which he won into the bargain. But you, my dear D’Artagnan?” “What can you expect, my dear Porthos; a man is not privileged in all ways,” said D’Artagnan. “You know the proverb ‘Unlucky at play, lucky in love.’ You are too fortunate in your love for play not to take its revenge. What consequence can the reverses of fortune be to you? Have you not, happy rogue that you are—have you not your duchess, who cannot fail to come to your aid?” “Well, you see, my dear D’Artagnan, with what ill luck I play,” replied Porthos, with the most careless air in the world. “I wrote to her to send me fifty louis or so, of which I stood absolutely in need on account of my accident.” “Well?” “Well, she must be at her country seat, for she has not answered me.” “Truly?” “No; so I yesterday addressed another epistle to her, still more pressing than the first. But you are here, my dear fellow, let us speak of you. I confess I began to be very uneasy on your account.” “But your host behaves very well toward you, as it appears, my dear Porthos,” said D’Artagnan, directing the sick man’s attention to the full stewpans and the empty bottles.