“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