“Quite a vineyard, hey?”
Porthos sighed for the fifth time—D’Artagnan had counted his sighs. He became curious to solve the problem.
“Well now,” he said, “it seems, my dear friend, that something vexes you; you are ill, perhaps? That health, which——”
“Excellent, my dear friend; better than ever. I could kill an ox with a blow of my fist.”
“Well, then, family affairs, perhaps?”
“Family! I have, happily, only myself in the world to care for.”
“But what makes you sigh?”
“My dear fellow,” replied Porthos, “to be candid with you, I am not happy.”
“You are not happy, Porthos? You who have chateau, meadows, mountains, woods—you who have forty thousand francs a year—you—are—not—happy?”
“My dear friend, all those things I have, but I am a hermit in the midst of superfluity.”