"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 an excellent-hearted fellow, but your house is very small. Such a house, with only a couple of 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 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."
"Look at your orchard, how stripped it is, how empty your larder, your bedstead broken, your cellar almost exhausted, look too ... at Madame Trüchen—"
"Oh! my good gracious!" said Planchet.