“His honor’s equipage is waiting,” said Mousqueton.
The two friends, after a cordial pressure of the hands, separated. D’Artagnan was standing at the door looking after Porthos with a mournful gaze, when the baron, after walking scarcely more than twenty paces, returned — stood still — struck his forehead with his finger and exclaimed:
“What?” inquired D’Artagnan.
“Who the beggar was that I killed.”
“Ah! indeed! and who was he?”
“‘Twas that low fellow, Bonacieux.”
And Porthos, enchanted at having relieved his mind, rejoined Mousqueton and they disappeared around an angle of the street. D’Artagnan