“Exactly! They measured him down to the ground, and the end of the skirt came just below my knee.”
“What a marvelous man you are, Porthos! Such a thing could happen only to you.”
“Ah! yes; pay your compliments; you have ample grounds to go upon. It was exactly at that time—that is to say, nearly two years and a half ago—that I set out for Belle-Isle, instructing Mouston (so as always to have, in every event, a pattern of every fashion) to have a coat made for himself every month.”
“And did Mouston neglect complying with your instructions? Ah! that was anything but right, Mouston.”
“No, monsieur, quite the contrary; quite the contrary!”
“No, he never forgot to have his coats made; but he forgot to inform me that he had got stouter!”
“But it was not my fault, monsieur! your tailor never told me.”
“And this to such an extent, monsieur,” continued Porthos, “that the fellow in two years has gained eighteen inches in girth, and so my last dozen coats are all too large, from a foot to a foot and a half.”
“But the rest; those which were made when you were of the same size?”
“They are no longer the fashion, my dear friend. Were I to put them on, I should look like a fresh arrival from Siam; and as though I had been two years away from court.”