“My dear friend, a savant of my acquaintance, M. Costar, has made the same observation as you have, and he calls the process by some Greek name which I forget.”
“What! my remark is not then original?” cried Porthos, astounded. “I thought I was the discoverer.”
“My friend, the fact was known before Aristotle’s days—that is to say, nearly two thousand years ago.”
“Well, well, ‘tis no less true,” said Porthos, delighted at the idea of having jumped to a conclusion so closely in agreement with the greatest sages of antiquity.
“Wonderfully—but suppose we return to Mouston. It seems to me, we have left him fattening under our very eyes.”
“Yes, monsieur,” said Mouston.
“Well,” said Porthos, “Mouston fattened so well, that he gratified all my hopes, by reaching my standard; a fact of which I was well able to convince myself, by seeing the rascal, one day, in a waistcoat of mine, which he had turned into a coat—a waistcoat, the mere embroidery of which was worth a hundred pistoles.”
“‘Twas only to try it on, monsieur,” said Mouston.
“From that moment I determined to put Mouston in communication with my tailors, and to have him measured instead of myself.”
“A capital idea, Porthos; but Mouston is a foot and a half shorter than you.”