They exchanged bows and D’Artagnan returned to his companions.
“What on earth can you have been saying to that bulldog?” exclaimed Porthos.
“My dear fellow, don’t speak like that of Monsieur Groslow. He’s one of my most intimate friends.”
“One of your friends!” cried Porthos, “this butcher of unarmed farmers!”
“Hush! my dear Porthos. Monsieur Groslow is perhaps rather hasty, it’s true, but at bottom I have discovered two good qualities in him—he is conceited and stupid.”
Porthos opened his eyes in amazement; Athos and Aramis looked at one another and smiled; they knew D’Artagnan, and knew that he did nothing without a purpose.
“But,” continued D’Artagnan, “you shall judge of him for yourself. He is coming to play with us this evening.”
“Oho!” said Porthos, his eyes glistening at the news. “Is he rich?”
“He’s the son of one of the wealthiest merchants in London.”
“And knows lansquenet?”