“Oh!” said Mousqueton, much affected, “I shall certainly write to him.”
“What!” cried D’Artagnan, “you will write to him?”
“This very day; I shall not delay it an hour.”
“Is he not here, then?”
“No, monsieur.”
“But is he near at hand?—is he far off?”
“Oh, can I tell, monsieur, can I tell?”
“Mordioux!” cried the musketeer, stamping with his foot, “I am unfortunate. Porthos is such a stay-at-home!”
“Monsieur, there is not a more sedentary man that monseigneur, but—”
“But what?”