“Port,” he said, extending his hand in the direction of the first compartment examined by D’Artagnan and himself.

“Eh? eh? ah?  Those barrels I saw through the door?”

“Port!” replied Grimaud, beginning a fresh sum.

“I have heard,” said Blaisois, “that port is a very good wine.”

“Excellent!” exclaimed Mousqueton, smacking his lips.  “Excellent; there is port wine in the cellar of Monsieur le Baron de Bracieux.”

“Suppose we ask these Englishmen to sell us a bottle,” said the honest Blaisois.

“Sell!” cried Mousqueton, about whom there was a remnant of his ancient marauding character left.  “One may well perceive, young man, that you are inexperienced.  Why buy what one can take?”

“Take!” said Blaisois; “covet the goods of your neighbor?  That is forbidden, it seems to me.”

“Where forbidden?” asked Mousqueton.

“In the commandments of God, or of the church, I don’t know which.  I only know it says, `Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s goods, nor yet his wife.’”

“That is a child’s reason, Monsieur Blaisois,” said Mousqueton in his most patronizing manner.  “Yes, you talk like a child —­ I repeat the word.  Where have you read in the Scriptures, I ask you, that the English are your neighbors?”

“Where, that is true,” said Blaisois; “at least, I can’t now recall it.”

“A child’s reason —­ I repeat it,” continued Mousqueton.  “If you had been ten years engaged in war, as Grimaud and I have been, my dear Blaisois, you would know the difference there is between the goods of others and the goods of enemies.  Now an Englishman is an enemy; this port wine belongs to the English, therefore it belongs to us.”

“And our masters?” asked Blaisois, stupefied by this harangue, delivered with an air of profound sagacity, “will they be of your opinion?”

Mousqueton smiled disdainfully.

“I suppose that you think it necessary that I should disturb the repose of these illustrious lords to say, `Gentlemen, your servant, Mousqueton, is thirsty.’  What does Monsieur Bracieux care, think you, whether I am thirsty or not?”

“’Tis a very expensive wine,” said Blaisois, shaking his head.

“Were it liquid gold, Monsieur Blaisois, our masters would not deny themselves this wine.  Know that Monsieur de Bracieux is rich enough to drink a tun of port wine, even if obliged to pay a pistole for every drop.”  His manner became more and more lofty every instant; then he arose and after finishing off the beer at one draught he advanced majestically to the door of the compartment where the wine was.  “Ah! locked!” he exclaimed; “these devils of English, how suspicious they are!”

“Locked!” said Blaisois; “ah! the deuce it is; unlucky, for my stomach is getting more and more upset.”

“Locked!” repeated Mousqueton.

“But,” Blaisois ventured to say, “I have heard you relate, Monsieur Mousqueton, that once on a time, at Chantilly, you fed your master and yourself by taking partridges in a snare, carp with a line, and bottles with a slipnoose.”