"Oh, never mind," said Porthos, contemptuously; "it is all trash."
"Trash, Porthos! Cloth at twenty livres an ell! gorgeous satin! regal velvet!"
"Then you think these clothes are—"
"Splendid, Porthos, splendid. I'll wager that you alone in France have so many; and suppose you never had any more made, and were to live a hundred years, which wouldn't astonish me, you could still wear a new dress the day of your death, without being obliged to see the nose of a single tailor from now till then." Porthos shook his head.
"Come, my friend," said D'Artagnan, "this unnatural melancholy in you frightens me. My dear Porthos, pray get out of it then; and the sooner the better."
"Yes, my friend, so I will; if indeed it is possible."
"Perhaps you have received bad news from Bracieux?"
"No; they have felled the wood, and it has yielded a third more than the estimate."
"Then has there been a falling-off in the pools of Pierrefonds?"
"No, my friend; they have been fished, and there is enough left to stock all the pools in the neighborhood."