“Certainly. I am going to take a turn in the town to get everything ready for that. Do not think of leaving the house, I beg.”
“Oh, no!” exclaimed Porthos.
Planchet looked at D’Artagnan nervously.
“Will you be away long?” he inquired.
“No, my friend; and this very evening I will release you from two troublesome guests.”
“Oh! Monsieur d’Artagnan! can you say—”
“No, no; you are a noble-hearted fellow, but your house is very small. Such a house, with half a dozen acres of land, would be fit for a king, and make him very happy, too. But you were not born a great lord.”
“No more was M. Porthos,” murmured Planchet.
“But he has become so, my good fellow; his income has been a hundred thousand francs a year for the last twenty years, and for the last fifty years Porthos has been the owner of a couple of fists and a backbone, which are not to be matched throughout the whole realm of France. Porthos is a man of the very greatest consequence compared to you, and... well, I need say no more, for I know you are an intelligent fellow.”
“No, no, monsieur, explain what you mean.”