“To your health!” said Jupenet, quite enchanted.
“To yours, mordioux, to yours. But—an instant—not in this cider. It is an abominable drink, unworthy of a man who quenches his thirst at the Hippocrene fountain—is not it so you call your fountain, you poets?”
“Yes, monsieur, our fountain is so called. That comes from two Greek words—hippos, which means a horse, and—”
“Monsieur,” interrupted D’Artagnan, “you shall drink of a liquor which comes from one single French word, and is none the worse for that—from the word grape; this cider gives me the heartburn. Allow me to inquire of your host if there is not a good bottle of Beaugency, or of the Ceran growth, at the back of the large bins in his cellar.”
The host, being sent for, immediately attended.
“Monsieur,” interrupted the poet, “take care, we shall not have time to drink the wine, unless we make great haste, for I must take advantage of the tide to secure the boat.”
“What boat?” asked D’Artagnan.
“Why the boat which sets out for Belle-Isle.”
“Ah—for Belle-Isle,” said the musketeer, “that is good.”
“Bah! you will have plenty of time, monsieur,” replied the hotelier, uncorking the bottle, “the boat will not leave this hour.”