“It is my most ferocious oath; when I have once said Malaga! I am a man no longer.”
“Still, I never knew you use that oath before.”
“Very likely not, monsieur. I had a present made me of it,” said Planchet; and, as he pronounced these words, he winked his eye with a cunning expression, which thoroughly awakened D’Artagnan’s attention.
“Come, come, M. Planchet.”
“Why, I am not like you, monsieur,” said Planchet. “I don’t pass my life in thinking.”
“You do wrong, then.”
“I mean in boring myself to death. We have but a very short time to live—why not make the best of it?”
“You are an Epicurean philosopher, I begin to think, Planchet.”
“Why not? My hand is still as steady as ever; I can write, and can weigh out my sugar and spices; my foot is firm; I can dance and walk about; my stomach has its teeth still, for I eat and digest very well; my heart is not quite hardened. Well, monsieur?”
“Well, what, Planchet?”