asked Porthos, warmly.

“Because he plainly perceives that his piquette stands in need of being enlivened by a mixture of good wine.”

The two Musketeers reddened to the whites of their eyes. d’Artagnan did not know where he was, and wished himself a hundred feet underground.

“Yes, yes,” continued M. de Treville, growing warmer as he spoke, “and his majesty was right; for, upon my honor, it is true that the Musketeers make but a miserable figure at court. The cardinal related yesterday while playing with the king, with an air of condolence very displeasing to me, that the day before yesterday those DAMNED MUSKETEERS, those DAREDEVILS — he dwelt upon those words with an ironical tone still more displeasing to me — those BRAGGARTS, added he, glancing at me with his tiger-cat’s