“Ah! he kills him, then?” cried Raoul.
“I should think so,” said Porthos. “Is it likely I should ever have as a friend a man who allows himself to get killed? I have a hundred and one friends; at the head of the list stand your father, Aramis, and D’Artagnan, all of whom are living and well, I believe?”
“Oh, my dear baron,” exclaimed Raoul, as he embraced Porthos.
“You approve of my method, then?” said the giant.
“I approve of it so thoroughly, that I shall have recourse to it this very day, without a moment’s delay,—at once, in fact. You are the very man I have been looking for.”
“Good; here I am, then; you want to fight, I suppose?”
“Absolutely.”
“It is very natural. With whom?”
“With M. de Saint-Aignan.”
“I know him—a most agreeable man, who was exceedingly polite to me the day I had the honor of dining with the king. I shall certainly acknowledge his politeness in return, even if it had not happened to be my usual custom. So, he has given you an offense?”