"Well," said Porthos, "Mouston fattened so well, that he gratified all my hopes, by reaching my standard; a fact of which I was well able to convince myself, by seeing the rascal, one day, in a waistcoat of mine, which he had turned into a coat—a waistcoat, the mere embroidery of which was worth a hundred pistoles."
"'Twas only to try it on, monsieur," said Mouston.
"From that moment, I determined to put Mouston in communication with my tailors, and to have him measured instead of myself."
"A capital idea, Porthos; but Mouston is a foot and a half shorter than you."
"Exactly! They measured him down to the ground, and the end of the skirt came just below my knee."
"What a wonder you are, Porthos! Such a thing could happen only to you."
"Ah! yes; pay your compliments; there is something to do it upon. It was exactly at that time—that is to say, nearly two years and a half ago—that I set out for Belle-Isle, instructing Mouston (so as always to have, in every event, a pattern of every fashion) to have a coat made for himself every month."
"And did Mouston neglect complying with your instructions? Ah! that would not be right, Mouston."
"No, monsieur, quite the contrary, quite the contrary!"
"No, he never forgot to have his coats made; but he forgot to inform me that he had got stouter!"