does not matter; and a few of those bottles of old Burgundy wine, which cured your master so quickly of his sprain!”
“Alas! sir,” said Mousqueton, “I much fear that what you ask for are very rare things in this detestable and barren country, and I think we should do better to go and seek hospitality from the owner of a little house we see on the fringe of the forest.”
“How! is there a house in the neighborhood?” asked D’Artagnan.
“Yes, sir,” replied Mousqueton.
“Well, let us, as you say, go and ask a dinner from the master of that house.
What is your opinion, gentlemen, and does not M. Mouston’s suggestion