The Three Musketeers (The Modern Library) - Alexandre Dumas [175]
“Wouldn’t you care for some of these beans, Cousin Porthos?” Madame Coquenard inquired in a tone that implied: “Take my word for it, don’t touch them!”
“Devil take me if I taste a single one!” Porthos muttered; then, aloud: “No, thank you, Cousin, I have eaten my fill.”
A silence fell upon the company. Porthos was utterly at a loss. The attorney repeated several times:
“Ah, Madame, I congratulate you. Your dinner was a feast for the gods. Lord, how copiously I have eaten!”
In point of fact, the lawyer had sipped his bouillon, scraped the black foot of the unsavory fowl, and pared the only mutton bone which bore the semblance of any meat on it. Porthos, suddenly deciding he was the victim of a hoax, twirled his mustache and knit his eyebrows. But no! the knee of Madame pressed gently against his own, counseling patience.
This silence and the interruption in the service of the meal were unintelligible to Porthos, but it held a terrible meaning for the clerks. At a glance from the attorney, seconded by a smile from Madame Coquenard, they shuffled slowly to their feet, folded their napkins even more slowly, bowed and withdrew, as the attorney said solemnly:
“Go young men, go promote your digestion of this succulent food by working as hard as you can.”
The clerks gone, Madame Coquenard rose and took up from the sideboard a piece of cheese, some quince jam, and a cake she herself had made with almonds and honey. Her husband frowned at what he considered her extravagance. Porthos pursed his lips at these starvation rations. He even looked around to see if the dish of beans were still available but it had vanished.
The attorney was squirming in his chair.
“A banquet to be remembered forever!” he said. “Epulde epulorum, a real feast. Lucullus dines with Lucullus!”
Porthos glanced obliquely at the crock by his side; perhaps with wine, bread and cheese, he might be able to eke out what had not yet amounted to a snack. But the crock was empty, a fact which neither the lawyer nor his lady seemed aware of.
“Well, I know where I stand!” he thought resentfully.
He passed his tongue over a small spoonful of quince and found his teeth caught in the glutinous substance of Madame Attorney’s cake.
“Now,” he said to himself, “the sacrifice is consummated. Cheer up, Porthos, you still have hopes of peeping with Madame Coquenard into her husband’s strong box.”
After the luxuries of so luxurious a meal—excessive, he termed it—Maître Coquenard felt the need of a siesta. Porthos devoutly hoped the old fool would take his snooze then and there, but no! refusing to listen to reason, he insisted on being taken back to the drawing room, fussing and grumbling until he had been wheeled up to his chest over which, for greater safety, he hoisted his legs. He then relapsed into a sonorous slumber.
His wife led Porthos to an adjoining room and began to lay the groundwork for a reconciliation.
“You can come and dine three times a week,” Madame Coquenard said archly.
“Thank you, Madame, but I should hate to take advantage of your kindness. I must look to my equipment.”
“True,” she admitted, groaning. “That unfortunate equipment.”
“Ay, Madame.”
“What does your equipment consist of, Monsieur Porthos?”
“Well, it is rather elaborate, Madame. As you know the musketeers are a crack corps. We require many things which would be useless to the Royal Guards or to the Swiss Guards.”
“Tell me more, Monsieur, give me details.”
“Well—” Porthos hedged. He much preferred naming a lump sum to offering a bill of particulars.
She looked at him encouragingly.
“Well,” Porthos said, “all this may amount to—”
She waited, tremulous.
“To how much?” she asked. “I hope not more than—,” she stopped, at a loss for words.
“Well, it will certainly not exceed twenty-five hundred livres. As a matter of fact,