The horse is named Ventre-Tambour, Bellydrum !! He is assured to win; Milord dreamt, last night, that he saw him four lengths ahead at Tattenham-court-road Corner.

I wager freely on Ventre-Tambour.

Lord Ouiggins says we had better not go down to his baronial hall at Ouapping, but "make a night" and start early.

Ah, nights of London, you have not, effectively, stolen your reputation! What contrasts, fascinating but terrible -here, the noblesse, like Ouiggins quaffing champagne with visitors from France; and there the miserables, the Tom-Dick-Harries drinking gin-the blonde misses, casting aside the Puritanic pudor of the saloon, and dancing freely with foreign gentlemans at the Duke of Argyle's Casino-what contrasts, but also, alas, what jealousies still existing, what internecine hatred still in rage!

That the English should hate the Irish is but natural. We always hate those whom we have wronged!

It is less reasonable that they should continue to hate the children of Cambria, with whom they have been so long in friendly union.

And yet, more than once during this exciting evening, I have heard Lord Ouiggins spoken of-my patrician pur sang-as a Welsher, with evident contempt.

Brutal antipathies unworthy of the century!

They shall have no influence on the mind of a son of France.

"Lord Ouilliam," I exclaimed, "regard them not! Generous compatriot of Llewellyn, I pledge thee in another bumper to the victory of Ventre-Tambour!"

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REALITIES OF THE DERBY.

I. Selters waters, or S. and B?

After Light, Shadow; after Pleasure, Pain; sad but inevitable oscillations of the pendulum of life!

Alas, to wake-it is to remember, and to remember is to repent.

Last night, I banqueted with the merchant-princes of London and with the ancient nobility of Wales; the leaders of the Fashion World, the Sport, the Turf, the boxers of the most renowned, the comics of the musical saloons-Lord Ouiggins signalised them all to me. Foam

ing, sparkling, vivacious, the wines of Champagne led the way for the stronger Grogs. A vision, confused indeed, but magnificent in its confusion, will long recall to me the night before the Derby.

I awoke.

Sad and supreme moment of mortality when awakening means isolation!

For some time, I knew not where I found myself. Presently, as the dim light of the dawn penetrated, first through the folds of the fog, and next through the dirt of the windows, I recollected that Lord Ouiggins had advised me to stay with him at a fashionable hotel, adding that his own drag would call for us in the morning.

It was still of a good hour. I turned myself to sleep; but heard, with dreamy ears, the fall-or so it seemed-of cataracts of rain, around me, beside me, overhead. The sound gave me a strange sensation of thirst, which I cannot otherwise explain.

Instinctively, I rang the bell, and shouted "Selters! Selters! Selters!"

A tap at my door; and Lord Ouilliam, in half-toilette, appeared. I saluted him.

Is it that the rain will make to be deferred the Courses?"

Strange and picturesque argot of intoxication: "awfully cut,' very tight."

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"Listen," continued Milord, "My carriage is not yet arrived. It has probably been stopped by the Thames Embankment, which is to run outside my park at Ouapping. Look you, I will take places for two, outside an omnibus. It is the usual plan amongst nobility. Admiral Rous will be one of us. You may easily know him by his wearing a white hat, a veil, and a flower in his button-hole. Meanwhile, better not have Selters. Try S. and B!" Enigma, of which the solution-when it came-was far from disagreeable.

II. Lux.

The morning at first was dull and brumous. The spleen of Britannia seemed to possess me. I had atrocious pains in my head. Every noise bore upon my nerves. The very sight of food seemed to nauseate me.

Lord Ouiggins, on the contrary, made a breakfast of the most substantial.

I cannot say much in favour of the cuisine at this fashionable hotel, one of the first in London, the well-known Spotted Dog in the aristocratic quarter. Route de la Chapelle Blanche (White-Chapel-road) the Faubourg St. Germain of London. Strange the hotel is not mentioned in any of the ordinary London Guides.

We take our places. The best seat is reserved for the Admiral-that famous old warrior, who turned the fortune of the day at Chillianwallah by his historical charge at the head of the Naval Reserve and the Royal Horse Marines. Combination eccentric, but not without precedent. The horse was sacred to Neptunus. This Rous, see you, this Admiral so passionately equine in his tastes, he is JeanBart and he is also Murat; he is Kellermann and he is also La Pérouse! All the great men touch, and recognise one another!

The light still brightens. Behold us then effectively departed!

Hourrah! Hep, hep, hep!

Vive Ventre-Tambour !

III. Nothing is Certain to Happen but that which is

Unforeseen.

We have gone a few miles on our road, still through the streets of the fashionable quarter, to-day as democratic as the Faubourg St. Antoine, and crowded with other Derbyites, before we speak much to each other. Reserve characteristic of the oldest and proudest aristocracy on earth.

At length Lord Ouiggins whispers me

"I knew I had forgotten something. I've left my purse on the piano!"

For the moment I wished that I had done the same.
Suspicion dishonouring and ignoble !

IV. Si Jeunesse Savait.

Fog, obscurity, cold-yes, you will find them all in the climate of Great Britain; in England, in Scotland, in Ireland, and in the mountains of Wales, the cradle of Lord Quilliam! It is true, but it is not the only verity. Great Britain also has her moments of fine weather. There are

no such trees in the world as the tall poplars of my own, my beautiful France-none planted in such mathematical, such symmetrical order, so methodical, logical, and straight. Nevertheless, Nature is infinite. Even the chestnuts, hawthorns, lilacs, and laburnums of the Surrey lanes are not absolutely offensive to the eye. To-day, also, Phoebus pierces. Lux!

There are no women in the world like those of Paris; but there is still a pleasant freshness in the faces of the young pensionaries who watch us, at times, over garden walls. To several of these, I kiss my hand. They smile in reply. Laugh, rosy daughters of Albion, laugh; for it is still day, and you are young-too young for reverie.

V. When Poverty becomes ironical, let Wealth take care. The old Britannic humour, as exhibited in Samuel Benjamin Jonson, in Jonathan Smith, and Dean Sydney Swift, is not absolutely extinct upon the road.

More than one little Arab of the highway shouts out to me, "I'll have your hat!" Wild caprice of the imagination, playfully misrepresenting the probable eventualities of the future, and yet, at bottom, profound, almost terrible-a mockery, yes, but a menace-a jest, without doubt, but a threat also-the voice, grotesque but strident, of the Miserables.

I impart the reflections to Lord Ouiggins. Alas, to what good? The pride of his class is too strong for him. His natural instincts are noble; but he is spoiled by the mephitic atmosphere of the Upper Chamber. With a laugh cold, sardonic, and glacial, he replies

66

Throw the little beggar a copper, and let him go! He does not even, generous though he is, offer to provide the copper.

Again, ignoble suspicion! I forget that he has left his purse on the piano!

The Arab-delirious with joy-saved, perhaps, from starvation by the casual bounty of a foreign sportmans, would fain express his thanks. His emotion overpowers him. He staggers; horror, he falls! No! again! Gallant child of Poverty, the struggle is vain. Once more he wavers, he oscillates, he falls, and turning wildly head over heels, in the convulsion of his death agony, he disappears in a cloud of dust-doubtless to be driven over by the omnibuses of the haughty, and the phaetons of the Stock Exchange! Shocked, but masking my horror under the veil of a politeness a little cynical I say to Lord Ouiggins.

"And well, then, Milord, did you see what he did? and do you know what will be his fate?"

Question terrible !

He does not even remove the cigar from his mouth, this impassive patrician, as he answers, with a laconism which lacerates, which vibrates on my nerves, which almost makes me bound,

"Yes; cart-wheel!"

VI. London at Epsom.

Dust, heat, emotion-all stimulate thirst.

I soon forget the little Arab. There are plenty of others remaining! There are worse things in the world, too, than bottled stout. Lord Ouilliam tells me that none of the aristocracy now drink champagne in public. It excites a feeling of envy among the lower orders. On Derby's Day, the populace gives the tone to the peerage.

The crowd; my faith, and what a crowd! There are two things in the world which a man never forgets his first sight of the sea, and his first sight of the multitude on Epsom Downs!

What a sound, as of ocean! What infinite discords, subdued, by very force of number and of contradiction, into

one sublime monotone! What minstrelsy, cosmopolitan and comprehensive-the audible expression of a Colonial System unparalleled in grandeur and extent! The Hindoo may think in his heart of the days when he fought for his country's municipal freedom under the banner of Rammohun Roy and Nana Sahib; but look! Plaintively submissive, he strikes his tom-tom to amuse the destroyers of his race.

VII. Messieurs, faites votre jeu ! Le jeu est fait ! "Would you like to see the horses a little nearer?" says Lord Ouiggins. "You had better buy a couple of tickets for the Padwick." I do so. The Padwick-so called of an eminent British sportmans-is an enclosed space in which the true connoisseurs survey the horses before they start. As I gaze at Ventre-Tambour, I can hardly refrain from shouting, amongst all these impassible patricians, "Hourrah! Hep, hep, hep!

Lord Ouilliam Ouiggins comes to me, hurriedly, and whispers, "Hush, I have just got the straight tip from the Admiral himself. It's a moral; and the horse at twentyfive to one! We must get on every sov. we have. There is barely time before they start. Quick.' I hand him my purse-not without a moment of hesitation-of which I am speedily ashamed.

VIII. Rien ne va plus.

A minute sometimes seems like hours. Fortune was in my grasp.

The interval of suspense was horrible; and yet its termination, when it did come, seemed abrupt, sudden, incredible.

I was still struggling with the crowd, when a hoarse sound suddenly rose like the roar of a tempest on a rocky coast-it rose, and rose, and grew stronger; I looked; I saw a wonderful white flash of faces as the heads of the multitude turned all, in one instant, one way; and my pulses seemed as though they would kill me with their throbbing as, with one voice, that innumerable assemblage cried

"THEY'RE OFF!"

IX. The Word of the Enigma.

They were indeed; and so was Lord Ouilliam Ouiggins of Ouapping! ANONYMOUS, 1869.

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ONE-AND-THREE.

In 1874, Punch published a novel under the above title ascribed to "Fictor Nogo," but which was popularly (and correctly) attributed to Mr. F. C. Burnand. Later on it was published in book form by Bradbury and Co. The fun is rather long drawn out, but Hugo's style is admi rably parodied. The following is an extract from the preface:

Letter from M. Fictor Nogo (author of "Une-ettrois") to our eminent translator:-"My Honourable Co-Labourer,-Your noble and glorious translation of my immortal work touches me profoundly. I felicitate London. London, in publishing a work of mine, draws to itself the attention of the civilised world. London swells with pride under the benignant sway of a Lord Mayor. The Lord Mayor crowns poets, glorifies literature. He decks you with turtle, and this does homage to

genius. You represent genius, for you represent me. Thus I am shadowed: for this I embrace you in spirit, You have co-mingled your ideas with mine. You and I, the Translator and the Translated, the Adapter and the Adapted, it is grand. More than grand-it is stupendous. More than stupendcus-it is colossal."

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"THIRTY-ONE."

(By the Author of "93," "The History of a Grime," &c., &c.)

CHAPTER I.-Searching.

She was lost! In this world nothing is lost. It is only mislaid. She was Miss Lade: yet she was lost! Where was she? She was in London. London is in England. It is a great city-as large as Paris! It is as hard to discover a person in London as "to find a needle in a bottle of hay.' This is an English phrase. They bottle hay, and rack it, like wine! It is made into chaff. The people are fond of chaff. The Scotchman lives on oats, the Irishman on potatoes, the Englishman on chaff. Tom Harry sought her. He wanted to marry her! He hoped she also wanted Tom Harry. But he had lost her. He knew she was in London, therefore he was in London. He inquired of many. They gave him chaff. He could not find the needle in it. She was his needle. He was a Pole-an English naturalized Pole. He would stick at nothing to find her. They were true to each other as Needle and Pole! but were now as far apart as two Poles !

CHAPTER II.-Cum Grano Salis.

The world is always large. Society is small. But Tom Harry and Miss Lade were in the world. They were not in Society! He had to seek her out of Society. Endeavour to catch a globule of mercury in a drawer. It flies -it escapes-it separates into atoms-it joins again and rolls away-it is lost-it is found-it is never secured! It eludes you—it is a demon-a wild spirit that vanishes as you think you grasp it! So was Miss Lade to Tom Harry! He thought that he saw her-but she became invisible! He could not find her. She found herselfit was in furnished apartments!

CHAPTER III.-Arithmetic.

He had a clue! But what was a clue in so wild a maze as the great London? In Paris the police would have found her, In London there were, at that time, no police. They were "reserved forces," and had been called out in case of war! When so used there are no police. The authorities then make constables of the prisoners. It is a maxim of English law, "Set a thief to catch a thief." But Miss Lade was not a thief-except that she had stolen the heart of Tom Harry! This was not a legal felony-therefore the police could not catch her! The clue was a piece of paper found in her room in Paris. On it was written the number " 31" and "London." That was all !

CHAPTER IV.-Circumambient.

How to find this number 31? That was the problem. Tom Harry had graduated at Oxford-not Cambridge. This was the error! A Cambridge man would have been able to calculate the probabilities, and obtained a result. Tom Harry had to discover her equation. She was X (an unknown quantity). He was A, but he was also - C

(that is minus cash)! The postulate was that A-C+B= X. What was the B in the equation ?-probably a book. What book?-decidedly a London directory! He bought one. It is a large book-a heavy one! He could not carry it yet it was a necessary work of reference. Difficulties must be conquered. Man was made to overcome them! Tom Harry succeeded! He purchased a single" perambulator-not a "double "-one they double up! The leaves of the directory were doubled down. Therefore the perambulator and the book were in accord! He wheel'd about his book. It was his child !-he had bought it! They allow this in England, where they sell wives at Smithfield! He found his way about. This child was his guide! Is not childhood the very best and purest guide to manhood? and does not manhood only lead us into a second childhood? But among all the numbers "thirty-one," he had not found her! He was in a fog. She was mist. He was in a London fog! It was dark and thick as Erebus! But he could not see e'er a "bus." They could not run; nor could he. He had lost Miss Lade-he had now lost himself? He asked a sweeper of crossings where was he? He was told that he was at the corner of the Park of Hyde! It was true.

CHAPTER V. What Happens is Always the Unforeseen.

There are dark periods in the history of nations. It is the same with individuals. It was so with Tom Harry. He was at the Park of Hyde-at one corner of it! It was a place to hide in-hence the name. Was she hidden there? It was a natural thought. He would search it, and would find her! But how? He knew not the way! Here steps in Fate, which governs all things. It was a policeman! There were only two left of the reservesone to guard the Tower, where the Queen resides; the other in charge of Constitution Hill, which is by the corner of Hyde Park. Under ordinary circumstances the police of London are not permitted to talk. They are only allowed to say, "Move on!" This is the Englishman's watchword! The Americans have the same, in effect; they say, "Go ahead!" The policeman in charge of Constitution Hill was absolved from this rule by an Order in Council. The It was an important office. preservation of the Queen and Constitution (which is kept on the Hill named from it) is of the greatest national consequence. Therefore the policeman was a high official, and allowed to speak. Tom Harry addressed him, explaining his position and quest for Miss Lade. The policeman pointed to his collar and the figures on it, exclaimed-"I am number '31'! Miss Lade lodges with my wife!" The clue was right! She was found! Finis. C. H. WARING.

Fun. August 14, 1878.

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In Bret Harte's Sensation Novels Condensed there is an imitation of Victor Hugo, in ten chapters, entitled "Fantine." The Prologue is as follows:

"As long as there shall exist three paradoxes-a moral Frenchman, a religious Atheist, and a believing scepticso long, in fact, as booksellers shall wait-say twenty-five years for a new gospel; so long as paper shall remain cheap and ink at three sous a bottle, I have no hesitation in saying that such books as these are not utterly profitless!

Victor Hugo."

"Grinplaine, or the man who doesn't laugh." A serial burlesque of Victor Hugo's "L'homme qui rit," by Walter Parke, appeared in Funny Folks, 1875.

The Bat of June 2, 1885, contained a parody of Victor Hugo, called Quel bonheur Marie (What Cheer 'Ria?) somewhat coarse in tone, and not very amusing.

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THE HOUSE THAT VICTOR BUILT.

On January 24, 1885, the following announcement appeared in Punch :—

It being reported that Victor Hugo has just purchased for the sum of £13,000 a piece of land in the immediate vicinity of his present abode, with a view of building on it an entirely new house "of his own designing," the following extract from a preliminary letter of instructions to the contractor who has undertaken the work will be read with interest.

"You will ask me whether I am an Architect; and I reply to you, 'An Architect is one who constructs.' Do I construct? Yes. What? Never mind; let us proceed. To construct a house you require a basement. This is the language of the Contractor. But the Poet meets him with a rejoinder. A basement is a prison, and Liberty can not breathe through a grating. This was the case at the Bastille ! What has been done at the Bastille does not repeat itself. What [then? You will commence the house on the first floor.

Unquestionably!

Docs this stagger the Architect? Yet to commence a house on the first-floor is easy enough. To the Contractor? No. To the Poet? Yes. How? By a flight. Two flights will take anyone somewhere. Upstairs? Yes. Downstairs? Certainly! In my lady's chamber? Why not? This is a phenomenon, and surprises you Just now you were on the stare. Now you are on the first-floor landing. Therefore, you have taken a rise. Out of whom the Architect? Possibly. Let

us resume.

And now for the drawing-room.

This will be colossal. Why? Because the furniture in it will be stupendous. To talk of stupendous furniture is to suggest the opening scene of a Pantomime. A big head! Whose? No matter. But you will inquire as to this furniture. You will probably say, 'Will there be chairs?' No. Arm-chairs?' Useless. 'Sofas with six legs?' A phantom! What then? Canopied thrones for four-and-twenty, with one of a superior make and quality?' Quite so. Why? Because it is here that Genius, after dinner, will meet the Kings and Emperors that aspire to pay it homage. Will there be windows?' Rather-and there is this convenient thing besides-eight-and-forty balconies. You will say at once, Two a-piece?' But you will quickly add-'What of the gardens beneath?' this there is only one answer possible-' Fireworks!'

Το

Roman candles, rockets, and Bengal lights? No.-A set piece? Yes. Representing what? Somebody! Now there is this advantage about a set-piece that represents somebody-it carefully prepared, regardless of expense, and covering an area of 90 feet by 120. It may be permanent. Some one whispers Advertisement.' To this I make a supreme reply, Fame !'

And now let us pass to another room. Shall we put our foot in it? Yes. Why? Because it is the kitchen."

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CHAPTER I.

THE SPOILER OF THE SEA.

By Victor Hugo.

Gaillard was a wrecker, a smuggler. He was an honest man. Ships are the effect and cause of commerce. Commerce cheats, commerce adulterates, commerce is bad. To wreck ships engaged in knavery is good. Gaillard the smuggler robbed the revenue, you say; so do monarchs. You take off your hat to a king. I raise mine to Gaillard-to a man. You call me crazy. Keep your temper; I keep mine. You are an idiot. I should like to punch your head. Chapter II. Gaillard was considered ugly. He was not. He had a bump. A dromedary has a hump. The dromedary is beautiful. He had a squint-it is better to squint than to be blind. His eyes were greenthat is the colour of Nature's beauteous sylvan dress. His mouth was extremely large-so is that of the hippopotamus. The hippopotamus is a charming fellow. Gaillard had the beauty of the dromedary, the loveliness of Nature in his eyes, the charm of the hippopotamus. Gaillard was sublime. Chapter III. Gaillard sprang into the sea to bathe; this happened once a year. You will admit that once in three hundred and sixty-five days was not too often. An octopus-a devil fish-was watching him. Man and monster, they eyed each other. Gailland trembled at its glance-he was not brave. I saw it once, and did not tremble; I am brave. It was at the Aquarium. octopus has eight legs; Gaillard wished for eighty, but his two sufficed. Fear gave them the swiftness of two hundred. He ran. You would have run. Should I have done so ? Everything is possible. It is possible I should have run. F. P. DELAFOND. September 13, 1885.

The Weekly Dispatch.

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THE CAT.

The

THE cat is the concrete symbol of a vacillating politician. It is always on the fenee.

It is the feline embodiment of one of the profoundest human principles wrenched from the circumambience of the Unknown, and hurled into the bosom of consciousness,

Nine tailors make one man. The cat has nine times the life of one man, for it has nine lives. Possession, also, is nine points of the law. Behold a legal possession of existence equal to the span of eighty-one clothiers' lives. Let us bow reverently before this august fact.

The wanderer by the midnight seashore, when the moon -that argent cornucopia of heaven-is streaming forth her flowers and fruits of radiance, and the illimitable is illuminated by the ineffable, will have remarked the phosphorescent ridges that scintillate along the billows' tops, until the breakers seem to curve and snort like horses' necks with manes of lightning clad.

So, O man, when in the darkness of thine own chamber, thou passeth thine hand along the furry spine of this feline phantom of the back yard, the electric sparks dart forth, and a flash of lightning fuses together the fingers and the fur.

Exquisite antithesis of Nature! The fireside embraces the ocean. The hearthstone is paved with seashells. The monsters of the deep disport, reflected in the glowing embers. The infinite Abroad is brought into amalgamation with the finite at Home.

The whiskers of the captain.

The whiskers of the cat.

The hirsute exponent of martial supremacy. The feline symbolism of the Bearded Lady, crossing her claws before the family fire.

Jealousy has been called the green-eyed monster.

The cat is the green-eyed monster.

Both lie in wait. Neither destroys its victim without toying with it. One is the foe, the other the friend, of the fireside. Either is to be met with in almost every family. Each is of both sexes.

"Old Tom" gin, in excess, is one of man's bitterest bibulous foes; man is the bitterest bibulous foe of old tom cats.

Osculations between sky and earth! O lips of the Seer touching the lips of the Unseen! O wave of thought careering through the asymptotes of cloudland, crystalizing into angelic foci the tangents of humanity.

The stars are out at night.

So are cats!

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A MANIFESTO BY HICTOR VUGO

WE live and move and have our being. By we I express civilisation, which consists first of Paris, then the world at large. We are born with generous instincts. We are naturally humane. I call upon the French Revolution of '92-3 to prove this theory. We cannot all be Arabis. That would be too supreme a dream. But we can all admire him at a distance. Those horrible canaille the English have warred against a weak race of striplings, descendants of the glorious mummies. They have fought, and aided by the magnificent single-minded abstinent France have won. Mon dieu! Why was I not there? With one impassioned foot firmly planted on the escarpment of Tel-el-Kebir, I would have kept these British brutes at bay. I would have quoted one of my rhythmic poems, and they would have piled arms, awe-stricken and listened. Or, perhaps, these island savages in their ignorance, would have shot me. They are sufficiently unrefined for that. Ah! the thought is too dreadful. France, my beloved France, would in such a case have died also, for with me will perish all the ideas which go to make a great race-Adolphe, bring me a cigarette and a café noir. I would be calm.

CHAPTER II.

THE COMBAT.

On leaving Provins the first musketeer proceeded to Nangis, where he was reinforced by thirty-three followers. The second musketeer, arriving at Nangis at the same moment, placed himself at the head of thirty three more. The third guest of the landlord of Provins arrived at Nangis in time to assemble together thirty-three other musketeers.

The first stranger led the troops of his Eminence.
The second led the troops of the Queen.

The third led the troops of the King.

The fight commenced. It raged terribly for seven hours. The first musketeer killed thirty of the Queen's troops. The second musketeer killed thirty of the King's troops. The third musketeer killed thirty of his Eminence's troops. By this time it will be perceived the number of musketeers had been narrowed down to four on each side. Naturally the three principal warriors approached each other.

They simultaneously uttered a cry: "Aramis !"

"Athos!"

"D'Artagnan !"

They fell into each others arms.

"And it seems that we are fighting against each other, my children," said the Count de la Fere, mournfully. "How singular!" exclaimed Aramis and D'Artagnan. "Let us stop this fratricidal warfare," said Athos. "We will!" they exclaimed together.

"But how to disband Our followers?" queried D'Artagnan.

Aramis winked. They understood each other. "Let us cut 'em down!"

They cut 'em down. Aramis killed three. D'Artagnan three. Athos three.

The friends again embraced.

"How like old times!" said Aramis. "How touching!" exclaimed the serious and philosophic Count de la Fere.

The galloping of hoofs caused them to withdraw from each other's embraces. A gigantic figure rapidly approached.

"The innkeeper of Provins!" they cried, drawing their swords.

"Perigord, down with him!" shouted D'Artagnan. "Stay," said Athos.

The gigantic figure was beside them. He uttered a cry. "Athos, Aramis, D'Artagnan !"

"Porthos!" exclaimed the astonished trio.

"The same." They all fell in each other's arms.

The Count de la Fere slowly raised his hands to Heaven. "Bless you! Bless us, my children! However different our opinions may be in regard to politics, we have but one opinion in regard to our own merits. Where can you find a better man than Aramis ?"

"Than Porthos?" said Aramis.

"Than D'Artagnan?" said Porthos.

"Than Athos ?" said D'Artagnan.