"My friend," returned Porthos, sententiously, "there is always time when one chooses to find it."
Percerin turned crimson, a very ominous sign indeed in old men blanched by age. "Monsieur is very free to confer his custom elsewhere."
"Come, come, Percerin," interposed D'Artagnan, "you are not in a good temper to-day. Well, I will say one more word to you, which will bring you on your knees; monsieur is not only a friend of mine, but more, a friend of M. Fouquet's."
"Ah! ah!" exclaimed the tailor, "that is another thing." Then, turning to Porthos, "Monsieur le Baron is attached to the surintendant?" he inquired.
"I am attached to myself," shouted Porthos, at the very moment that the tapestry was raised to introduce a new speaker in the dialogue. Moliere was all observation, D'Artagnan laughed, Porthos swore.
"My dear Percerin," said D'Artagnan, "you will make a dress for the baron. 'Tis I who ask you."
"To you I will not say nay, captain."
"But that is not all; you will make it for him at once."
"'Tis impossible before eight days."
"That then is as much as to refuse, because the dress is wanted for the fete at Vaux."