The Three Musketeers (Translated by Richard Pevear) - Alexandre Dumas [160]
Seeing which, Porthos turned up his mustaches again, stroked his imperial a second time, and began making signs to a beautiful lady who was near the choir, and who was not only a beautiful lady, but also no doubt a grand lady, for behind her stood a little black boy who had brought her the cushion she was kneeling on, and a maid who was carrying an emblazoned bag that held the book from which she read her mass.
The lady in the black mantilla followed Porthos’s glance through all its meanderings, and noticed that it had settled on the lady with the velvet cushion, the little black boy, and the maid.
Meanwhile, Porthos was playing a close game: one of winks of the eye, of fingers to the lips, of killing little smiles that really killed the scorned beauty.
And so, as a form of mea culpa, and beating her breast, she sighed with such a vigorous “Hum!” that everyone, even the lady with the red cushion, turned to her. But Porthos held firm: though he had understood perfectly well, he played deaf.
The lady with the red cushion made a great effect, for she was extremely beautiful, on the lady with the black mantilla, who saw in her a rival truly to be feared; a great effect on Porthos, who found her prettier than the lady in the black mantilla; a great effect on d’Artagnan, who recognized her as the lady from Meung, Calais, and Dover, whom his persecutor, the man with the scar, had greeted with the name of Milady.
Without losing sight of the lady with the red cushion, d’Artagnan went on following Porthos’s strategem, which amused him greatly. He guessed that the lady in the black mantilla was the procureuse of the rue aux Ours, the more easily as the church of Saint-Leu was not far from the said street.
He then guessed by induction that Porthos was seeking to take revenge for his defeat in Chantilly, when the procureuse had proved so recalcitrant in regard to her purse.
But in the midst of all that, d’Artagnan also noticed that not one face responded to Porthos’s gallantries. It was all fantasy and illusion; but for a real love, for a veritable jealousy, is there any other reality than illusion and fantasy?
The sermon came to an end. The procureuse went towards the basin of holy water; Porthos got there ahead of her, and, instead of a finger, put his whole hand into it. The procureuse smiled, thinking that he had gone to that expense for her, but she was promptly and cruelly undeceived. When she was no more than three steps from him, he turned his head, fixing his eyes invariably on the lady with the red cushion, who had gotten up and was approaching, followed by her little black boy and her chambermaid.
When the lady with the red cushion was close to him, Porthos drew his hand all streaming from the basin; the devout beauty touched Porthos’s immense hand with her slender hand, smiled as she made the sign of the cross, and left the church.
This was too much for the procureuse: she no longer doubted that this woman and Porthos were in gallant relations. If she had been a grand lady, she would have swooned; but as she was only a procureuse, she contented herself with saying to the musketeer with contained fury:
“Ah, M. Porthos, so you offer me no holy water?”
At the sound of that voice, Porthos gave a start, like a man waking up after a hundred-year nap.
“Ma…Madame!” he cried. “Is it really you? How is your husband, that dear M. Coquenard? Still as stingy as ever? Where were my eyes, then, that I didn’t even notice you during the two hours the sermon lasted?”
“I was two steps away from you, Monsieur,” replied the procureuse, “but you didn’t notice me because you only had eyes for that beautiful lady to whom you just offered holy water.”
Porthos feigned embarrassment.
“Ah!” he said, “you noticed…”
“One would have had to be blind not to see it.”
“Yes,” Porthos said casually, “she’s a duchess friend of mine, with whom I have great