“Is there no other king to be restored, M. d’Artagnan—no second Monk to be packed up, like a salted hog, in a deal box?”
“No, my dear Planchet; all the kings are seated on their respective thrones; less comfortably so, perhaps, than I am upon this chair; but, at all events, there they are.” And D’Artagnan sighed deeply.
“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said Planchet, “you are making me very uneasy.”
“You are very good, Planchet.”
“I begin to suspect something.”
“What is it?”
“Monsieur d’Artagnan, you are getting thin.”
“Oh!” said D’Artagnan, striking his chest which sounded like an empty cuirass, “it is impossible, Planchet.”
“Ah!” said Planchet, slightly overcome; “if you were to get thin in my house—”
“Well?”