“Entirely,” said Porthos. “Continue.”
“No; I have read enough of it; but, since it is you, my dear Porthos, who direct the works, what need have you of setting down your system so formally in writing?”
“Oh! my dear friend, death!”
“How! death?”
“Why, we are all mortal, are we not?”
“That is true,” said D’Artagnan; “you have a reply for everything, my friend.” And he replaced the plan upon the stone.
But however short the time he had the plan in his hands, D’Artagnan had been able to distinguish, under the enormous writing of Porthos, a much more delicate hand, which reminded him of certain letters to Marie Michon, with which he had been acquainted in his youth. Only the India-rubber had passed and repassed so often over this writing that it might have escaped a less practiced eye than that of our musketeer.
“Bravo! my friend, bravo!” said D’Artagnan.
“And now you know all that you want to know, do you not?” said Porthos, wheeling about.
“Mordioux! yes, only do me one last favor, dear friend!”