"Ah!" said Planchet, slightly overcome, "if you were to get thin in my house—"
"Well?"
"I should do something rash."
"What would you do? Tell me."
"I should look out for the man who was the cause of all your anxieties."
"Ah! according to your account, I am anxious now."
"Yes, you are anxious, and you are getting thin, visibly getting thin. Malaga! if you go on getting thin in this way, I will take my sword in my hand, and go straight to M. d'Herblay, and have it out with him."
"What!" said M. d'Artagnan, starting in his chair—"what's that you say? And what has M. d'Herblay's name to do with your groceries?"
"Just as you please. Get angry if you like, or call me names, if you prefer it: but the deuce is in it—I know what I know."
D'Artagnan had, during this second outburst of Planchet, so placed himself as not to lose a single look of his face—that is, he sat with both his hands resting on his knees, and his head stretched out toward the grocer. "Come, explain yourself," he said, "and tell me how you could possibly utter such a blasphemy. M. d'Herblay, your old master, my friend, an ecclesiastic, a musketeer turned bishop—do you mean to say you would raise your sword against him, Planchet?"