that for his master’s sake he turns everything upside down; and as he thinks we might refuse what he asks for, he takes all he wants without asking at all.”

“And what took place?”

“Oh, the affair was not long, I assure you. They placed themselves on guard. The stranger made a feint and a lunge, and that so rapidly that when M. de Porthos came to parry he had already three inches of steel in his breast. He fell on his back. The stranger immediately placed the point of his sword on his throat; and M. Porthos, finding himself at the mercy of his adversary, confessed himself conquered. Whereupon the stranger asked his name, and learning that it was Porthos, and not D’Artagnan, assisted him to rise, brought him back to the hotel, mounted his horse, and disappeared.”

“Very well. Now I know all that I wished to know. Porthos’s room is, you say, on the first story, No. I?”

Saying these words, D’Artagnan went upstairs. At the top of the stairs, on the most conspicuous door of the corridor, was traced in black ink a gigantic “No. I.” D’Artagnan knocked, and upon being told from inside to enter, went into the chamber.

Porthos was in bed, and was playing a game of lansquenet with Mousqueton, to keep his hand in, while a spit loaded with patridges was turning before the fire, and at each side of a large chimney-piece, over two chafing-dishes, were boiling two stewpans, from which exhaled a double odour of rabbit and garlic stews, very grateful to the olfactory nerves. In addition to this, he perceived that the top of a wardrobe and the marble of a stand were covered with empty bottles.

At the sight of his friend Porthos uttered a loud cry of joy; and Mousqueton, rising respectfully, yielded his place to him, and went to give an eye to the two stewpans, over which he appeared to have especial care.

“Ah, zounds! is that you?” said Porthos to D’Artagnan. “Welcome! Excuse my not coming to meet you. But,” added he, looking at D’Artagnan with a certain degree of uneasiness, “you know what has happened to me?”

“Not exactly.”

“Has the landlord told you nothing, then?”

“I asked after you, and came straight up.”

Porthos seemed to breathe more freely.

“And what, then, has happened to you, my dear Porthos?” continued D’Artagnan.

“Why, on making a thrust at my adversary, whom I had already hit three times, and with whom I meant to finish by a fourth, my foot slipped on a stone, and I sprained my knee.”

“Indeed!”

“Honour bright! Luckily for the rascal, for I should have left him dead on the spot, I assure you.”

“And what became of him?”

“Oh, I don’t know. He had enough, and set off without wanting any more. But you, my dear D’Artagnan, what has happened to you?”

“So that this sprain,” continued D’Artagnan, “my dear Porthos, keeps you here in bed?”