“ Certes ,” cried Athos, “you are the best-mounted poet of France or Navarre.”
“Well, my dear Aramis, you don’t want three horses? I cannot comprehend what induced you to buy three!”
“Therefore I only purchased two,” said Aramis.
“The third, then, fell from the clouds, I suppose?”
“No, the third was brought to me this very morning by a groom out of livery, who would not tell me in whose service he was, and who said he had received orders from his master.”
“Or his mistress,” interrupted d’Artagnan.
“That makes no difference,” said Aramis, coloring; “and who affirmed, as I said, that he had received orders from his master or mistress to place the horse in my stable, without informing me whence it came.”
“It is only to poets that such things happen,” said Athos, gravely.
“Well, in that case, we can manage famously,” said d’Artagnan; “which of the two horses will you ride—that which you bought or the one that was given to you?”
“That which was given to me, assuredly. You cannot for a moment imagine, d’Artagnan, that I would commit such an offense toward—”
“The unknown giver,” interrupted d’Artagnan.
“Or the mysterious benefactress,” said Athos.
“The one you bought will then become useless to you?”
“Nearly so.”