“Planchet, my friend,” said Porthos, in a melancholy voice, “I am very ill; should you meet a doctor you will do me a favor by sending him to me.”
“Oh! good Heaven,” said Planchet, “what a misfortune! and how did it happen?”
“I will tell you all about it,” replied Mousqueton.
Porthos uttered a deep groan.
“Make way for us, Planchet,” said D’Artagnan in a whisper to him, “or he will not arrive alive; the lungs are attacked, my friend.”
Planchet shook his head with the air of a man who says, “In that case things look ill.” Then he exclaimed, turning to his men: