“And now,” said D’Artagnan, “that shabby-looking man, who accompanies M. Getard, is he also of the household of M. Fouquet?”
“Oh! yes,” said Porthos, with contempt; “it is one M. Jupenet, or Juponet, a sort of poet.”
“Who is come to establish himself here?”
“I believe so.”
“I thought M. Fouquet had poets enough, yonder—Scudery, Loret, Pelisson, La Fontaine? If I must tell you the truth, Porthos, that poet disgraces you.”
“Eh!—my friend; but what saves us is that he is not here as a poet.”
“As what, then, is he?”
“As printer. And you make me remember, I have a word to say to the cuistre.”
“Say it, then.”
Porthos made a sign to Jupenet, who perfectly recollected D’Artagnan, and did not care to come nearer; which naturally produced another sign from Porthos. This was so imperative, he was obliged to obey. As he approached, “Come hither!” said Porthos. “You only landed yesterday and you have begun your tricks already.”