The Three Musketeers (The Modern Library) - Alexandre Dumas [162]
Porthos, aware of the lady’s every move, answered each sigh of her vexation by twirling his mustache, stroking his goatee and making signs at a lady seated close to the choir—a pulchritudinous lady and doubtless of high station, for she was attended by a young Negro who bore the cushion upon which she knelt, and by a maidservant who held the emblazoned bag which contained her prayer book.
The lady in the black hood, who followed the glances of Porthos through all their meanderings, realized that they often rested quite fondly on the lady with the velvet cushion, the Negro and the maidservant. Porthos meanwhile was playing a shrewd game. It was with a slight almost imperceptible narrowing of his eyelids, with a finger placed upon his lips, and with trenchant little smiles that he was torturing the disdained beauty. Whereupon, while reciting her mea culpa, she beat her breast and cleared her throat so vigorously that everyone, including the lady with the red cushion, turned to stare at her. Porthos stood his ground, paying no need whatever; he understood well enough, but he turned a deaf ear to this desperate appeal.
The lady with the red cushion—she was indeed very beautiful—made a deep impression on the lady with the black hood, who saw in her a rival very much to be feared; she made a deep impression on Porthos who found her much prettier than the lady in the black hood; and she made a deep impression on D’Artagnan as he recognized in her the lady of Meung, of Calais and of Dover, whom his persecutor, the man with the scar, had addressed as Milady.
Without losing sight of the lady with the red cushion, D’Artagnan kept his eye on Porthos, deriving much amusement from the musketeer’s manoeuvres. Obviously he thought the lady in the black hood must be the attorney’s wife from the Rue aux Ours; the proximity of the Church of Saint-Leu to her residence corroborated D’Artagnan’s conjecture. Further he deduced that Porthos was attempting to take his revenge for his defeat at Chantilly when Madame Attorney had shown herself so recalcitrant with her cash.
But amid all this D’Artagnan noticed that no lady responded to the gallantries Porthos was lavishing. These were but chimeras and delusions. And yet in true love and authentic jealousy, are not chimeras and delusions the great realities?
The sermon over, Madame Attorney advanced toward the holy font; Porthos, preceding her, dipped not one finger in the holy water but his entire hand. The lady in the black hood smiled, believing that Porthos was making this gesture for her sake. But she was speedily and cruelly disillusioned. When she stood just three paces behind him he turned his head and stared earnestly at the lady with the red cushion who, having risen from her knees, was now drawing near, followed by her little Negro and her maidservant. Just as the beauty came up to Porthos, he withdrew his dripping hand from the basin, the fair worshipper laid her delicate hand lightly upon his great paw, smiled, made the sign of the cross, and left the church.
This was all too much for the attorney’s wife; she was now convinced that there must be some intrigue between this lady and Porthos. Had Madame Attorney been a great lady she would have fainted, but being only a lawyer’s wife she was content to address the musketeer with a concentrated fury:
“So, Monsieur Porthos,” she raged. “You offer no holy water to me!”
At the sound of her voice, Porthos started like a man who has been rudely awakened from a hundred years of slumber.
“M-m-ma-madame!” he cried, “is it really you? How is your husband, our dear Monsieur Coquenard? Still as stingy as ever? Where can my eyes have been not to have spied you during the two hours this sermon lasted?”
“I kneeled but two paces away from you, Monsieur, but you failed to see me because you had eyes for none but the lovely lady to whom you just gave holy water.”
Porthos feigned embarrassment.
“Oh!” he mumbled. “You noticed—?”
“Anyone but a blind man