“By no means! by the king, dear friend. The letter bears the following as large as life: ‘M. le Baron du Vallon is informed that the king has condescended to place him on the invitation list—‘”
“Very good; but you leave with M. Fouquet?”
“And when I think,” cried Porthos, stamping on the floor, “when I think I shall have no clothes, I am ready to burst with rage! I should like to strangle somebody or smash something!”
“Neither strangle anybody nor smash anything, Porthos; I will manage it all; put on one of your thirty-six suits, and come with me to a tailor.”
“Pooh! my agent has seen them all this morning.”
“Even M. Percerin?”
“Who is M. Percerin?”
“Oh! only the king’s tailor!”
“Oh, ah, yes,” said Porthos, who wished to appear to know the king’s tailor, but now heard his name mentioned for the first time; “to M. Percerin’s, by Jove! I was afraid he would be too busy.”
“Doubtless he will be; but be at ease, Porthos; he will do for me what he wouldn’t do for another. Only you must allow yourself to be measured!”