“Some wine!” said Athos, on perceiving the host.

“Some wine!” cried the stupefied host, “some wine?  Why you have drunk more than a hundred pistoles’ worth!  I am a ruined man, lost, destroyed!”

“Bah,” said Athos, “we were always dry.”

“If you had been contented with drinking, well and good; but you have broken all the bottles.”

“You pushed me upon a heap which rolled down.  That was your fault.”

“All my oil is lost!”

“Oil is a sovereign balm for wounds; and my poor Grimaud here was obliged to dress those you had inflicted on him.”

“All my sausages are gnawed!”

“There is an enormous quantity of rats in that cellar.”

“You shall pay me for all this,” cried the exasperated host.

“Triple ass!” said Athos, rising; but he sank down again immediately.  He had tried his strength to the utmost. d’Artagnan came to his relief with his whip in his hand.

The host drew back and burst into tears.

“This will teach you,” said d’Artagnan, “to treat the guests God sends you in a more courteous fashion.”

“God?  Say the devil!”

“My dear friend,” said d’Artagnan, “if you annoy us in this manner we will all four go and shut ourselves up in your cellar, and we will see if the mischief is as great as you say.”

“Oh, gentlemen,” said the host, “I have been wrong.  I confess it, but pardon to every sin!  You are gentlemen, and I am a poor innkeeper.  You will have pity on me.”

“Ah, if you speak in that way,” said Athos, “you will break my heart, and the tears will flow from my eyes as the wine flowed from the cask.  We are not such devils as we appear to be.  Come hither, and let us talk.”

The host approached with hesitation.

“Come hither, I say, and don’t be afraid,” continued Athos.  “At the very moment when I was about to pay you, I had placed my purse on the table.”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“That purse contained sixty pistoles; where is it?”

“Deposited with the justice; they said it was bad money.”

“Very well; get me my purse back and keep the sixty pistoles.”

“But Monseigneur knows very well that justice never lets go that which it once lays hold of.  If it were bad money, there might be some hopes; but unfortunately, those were all good pieces.”

“Manage the matter as well as you can, my good man; it does not concern me, the more so as I have not a livre left.”

“Come,” said d’Artagnan, “let us inquire further.  Athos’s horse, where is that?”

“In the stable.”

“How much is it worth?”

“Fifty pistoles at most.”

“It’s worth eighty.  Take it, and there ends the matter.”

“What,” cried Athos, “are you selling my horse—­my Bajazet?  And pray upon what shall I make my campaign; upon Grimaud?”

“I have brought you another,” said d’Artagnan.