“My friend, you know that it is not for a fortnight my house is open to you; it is for a year—for ten years—for life.”
“Thank you, Porthos.”
“Ah! but perhaps you want money—do you?” said Porthos, making something like fifty louis chink in his pocket. “In that case, you know——”
“No, thank you, I am not in want of anything. I placed my savings with Planchet, who pays me the interest of them.”
“Your savings?”
“Yes, to be sure,” said D’Artagnan: “why should I not put by my savings, as well as another, Porthos?”
“Oh, there is no reason why; on the contrary, I always suspected you—that is to say, Aramis always suspected you to have savings. For my own part, d’ye see, I take no concern about the management of my household; but I presume the savings of a musketeer must be small.”
“No doubt, relative to yourself, Porthos, who are a millionaire; but you shall judge. I had laid by twenty-five thousand livres.”
“That’s pretty well,” said Porthos, with an affable air.
“And,” continued D’Artagnan, “on the twenty-eighth of last month I added to it two hundred thousand livres more.”