“You are wounded,” said he.
“I! Not at all. I am dead drunk, that’s all, and never did a man more strongly set about getting so. By the Lord, my good host! I must at least have drunk for my part a hundred and fifty bottles.”
“Mercy!” cried the host, “if the lackey has drunk only half as much as the master, I am a ruined man.”
“Grimaud is a well-bred lackey. He would never think of faring in the same manner as his master; he only drank from the cask. Hark! I don’t think he put the faucet in again. Do you hear it? It is running now.”
D’Artagnan burst into a laugh which changed the shiver of the host into a burning fever.
In the meantime, Grimaud appeared in his turn behind his master, with the musketoon on his shoulder, and his head shaking. Like one of those drunken satyrs in the pictu
