“You have nothing yet to print: therefore you have no occasion to set your press going. What did you print last night?”
“Monsieur, a light poem of my own composition.”
“Light! no, no, monsieur; the press groaned pitifully beneath it. Let it not happen again. Do you understand?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“You promise me?”
“I do, monsieur!”
“Very well; this time I pardon you. Adieu!”
“Well, now we have combed that fellow’s head, let us breakfast.”
“Yes,” replied D’Artagnan, “let us breakfast.”
“Only,” said Porthos, “I beg you to observe, my friend, that we have only two hours for our repast.”