The D'Artagnan Romances - Complete Series (All 6 Books in One Edition). Alexandre Dumas

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СКАЧАТЬ in serving, which were unintelligible to Porthos, had, on the contrary, a terrible meaning for the clerks. Upon a look from the procurator, accompanied by a smile from Mme. Coquenard, they arose slowly from the table, folded their napkins more slowly still, bowed, and retired.

      “Go, young men! go and promote digestion by working,” said the procurator, gravely.

      The clerks gone, Mme. Coquenard rose and took from a buffet a piece of cheese, some preserved quinces, and a cake which she had herself made of almonds and honey.

      M. Coquenard knit his eyebrows because there were too many good things. Porthos bit his lips because he saw not the wherewithal to dine. He looked to see if the dish of beans was still there; the dish of beans had disappeared.

      “A positive feast!” cried M. Coquenard, turning about in his chair, “a real feast, EPULCE EPULORUM. Lucullus dines with Lucullus.”

      Porthos looked at the bottle, which was near him, and hoped that with wine, bread, and cheese, he might make a dinner; but wine was wanting, the bottle was empty. M. and Mme. Coquenard did not seem to observe it.

      “This is fine!” said Porthos to himself; “I am prettily caught!”

      He passed his tongue over a spoonful of preserves, and stuck his teeth into the sticky pastry of Mme. Coquenard.

      “Now,” said he, “the sacrifice is consummated! Ah! if I had not the hope of peeping with Madame Coquenard into her husband’s chest!”

      M. Coquenard, after the luxuries of such a repast, which he called an excess, felt the want of a siesta. Porthos began to hope that the thing would take place at the present sitting, and in that same locality; but the procurator would listen to nothing, he would be taken to his room, and was not satisfied till he was close to his chest, upon the edge of which, for still greater precaution, he placed his feet.

      The procurator’s wife took Porthos into an adjoining room, and they began to lay the basis of a reconciliation.

      “You can come and dine three times a week,” said Mme. Coquenard.

      “Thanks, madame!” said Porthos, “but I don’t like to abuse your kindness; besides, I must think of my outfit!”

      “That’s true,” said the procurator’s wife, groaning, “that unfortunate outfit!”

      “Alas, yes,” said Porthos, “it is so.”

      “But of what, then, does the equipment of your company consist, Monsieur Porthos?”

      “Oh, of many things!” said Porthos. “The Musketeers are, as you know, picked soldiers, and they require many things useless to the Guardsmen or the Swiss.”

      “But yet, detail them to me.”

      “Why, they may amount to—”, said Porthos, who preferred discussing the total to taking them one by one.

      The procurator’s wife waited tremblingly.

      “To how much?” said she. “I hope it does not exceed—” She stopped; speech failed her.

      “Oh, no,” said Porthos, “it does not exceed two thousand five hundred livres! I even think that with economy I could manage it with two thousand livres.”

      “Good God!” cried she, “two thousand livres! Why, that is a fortune!”

      Porthos made a most significant grimace; Mme. Coquenard understood it.

      “I wished to know the detail,” said she, “because, having many relatives in business, I was almost sure of obtaining things at a hundred per cent less than you would pay yourself.”

      “Ah, ah!” said Porthos, “that is what you meant to say!”

      “Yes, dear Monsieur Porthos. Thus, for instance, don’t you in the first place want a horse?”

      “Yes, a horse.”

      “Well, then! I can just suit you.”

      “Ah!” said Porthos, brightening, “that’s well as regards my horse; but I must have the appointments complete, as they include objects which a Musketeer alone can purchase, and which will not amount, besides, to more than three hundred livres.”

      “Three hundred livres? Then put down three hundred livres,” said the procurator’s wife, with a sigh.

      Porthos smiled. It may be remembered that he had the saddle which came from Buckingham. These three hundred livres he reckoned upon putting snugly into his pocket.

      “Then,” continued he, “there is a horse for my lackey, and my valise. As to my arms, it is useless to trouble you about them; I have them.”

      “A horse for your lackey?” resumed the procurator’s wife, hesitatingly; “but that is doing things in lordly style, my friend.”

      “Ah, madame!” said Porthos, haughtily; “do you take me for a beggar?”

      “No; I only thought that a pretty mule makes sometimes as good an appearance as a horse, and it seemed to me that by getting a pretty mule for Mousqueton—”

      “Well, agreed for a pretty mule,” said Porthos; “you are right, I have seen very great Spanish nobles whose whole suite were mounted on mules. But then you understand, Madame Coquenard, a mule with feathers and bells.”

      “Be satisfied,” said the procurator’s wife.

      “There remains the valise,” added Porthos.

      “Oh, don’t let that disturb you,” cried Mme. Coquenard. “My husband has five or six valises; you shall choose the best. There is one in particular which he prefers in his journeys, large enough to hold all the world.”

      “Your valise is then empty?” asked Porthos, with simplicity.

      “Certainly it is empty,” replied the procurator’s wife, in real innocence.

      “Ah, but the valise I want,” cried Porthos, “is a well-filled one, my dear.”

      Madame uttered fresh sighs. Moliere had not written his scene in “L’Avare” then. Mme. Coquenard was in the dilemma of Harpagan.

      Finally, the rest of the equipment was successively debated in the same manner; and the result of the sitting was that the procurator’s wife should give eight hundred livres in money, and should furnish the horse and the mule which should have the honor of carrying Porthos and Mousqueton to glory.

      These conditions being agreed to, Porthos took leave of Mme. Coquenard. The latter wished to detain him by darting certain tender glances; but Porthos urged the commands of duty, and the procurator’s wife was obliged to give place to the king.

      The Musketeer returned home hungry and in bad humor.

Chapter 33 SOUBRETTE AND MISTRESS

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