This Musketeer had just come off guard, complained of having a cold, and coughed from time to time affectedly.
It was for this reason, as he said to those around him, that he had put on his cloak; and while he spoke with a lofty air and twisted his mustache disdainfully, all admired his embroidered baldric, and d'Artagnan more than anyone.
"What would you have ?" said the Musketeer.

"This fashion is coming in.
It is a folly, I admit, but still it is the fashion.

Besides, one must lay out one's inheritance somehow." "Ah, Porthos!" cried one of his companions, "don't try to make us believe you obtained that baldric by paternal generosity.

It was given to you by that veiled lady I met you with the other Sunday, near the gate St.Honor." "No, upon honor and by the faith of a gentleman, I bought it with the contents of my own purse," answered he whom they designated by the name Porthos.
"Yes; about in the same manner," said another Musketeer, "that I bought this new purse with what my mistress put into the old one." "It's true, though," said Porthos; "and the proof is that I paid twelve pistoles for it." The wonder was increased, though the doubt continued to exist.
"Is it not true, Aramis ?" said Porthos, turning toward another Musketeer.
This other Musketeer formed a perfect contrast to his interrogator, who had just designated him by the name of Aramis.

He was a stout man, of about two- or three-and-twenty, with an open, ingenuous countenance, a black, mild eye, and cheeks rosy and downy as an autumn peach.