The Three Musketeers (Translated by Richard Pevear) - Alexandre Dumas [182]
Porthos left after arranging a rendezvous with the procureuse in the cloister of Saint-Magloire. The procureur, seeing that Porthos was leaving, invited him to dinner, an invitation that the musketeer declined with a majestic air.
Mme Coquenard went all atremble to the cloister of Saint-Magloire, for she had guessed what reproaches awaited her there; but she was fascinated by Porthos’s grand manner.
All the imprecations and reproaches that a man wounded in his vanity could pour down on a woman’s head, Porthos poured down on the bent head of the procureuse.
“Alas!” she said, “I did my best. One of our clients is a horse merchant. He owed the office money and proved recalcitrant. I took the mule and the horse for what he owed us—he had promised me two royal mounts.”
“Well, Madame,” said Porthos, “if he owed you more than five écus, your horse dealer is a thief.”
“It’s not forbidden to look for a bargain, M. Porthos,” said the procureuse, looking for an excuse.
“No, Madame, but those who look for bargains must allow others to look for more generous friends.”
And, turning on his heel, Porthos took a step away.
“M. Porthos! M. Porthos!” cried the procureuse. “I was wrong, I admit it, I shouldn’t have bargained when it was a question of outfitting a cavalier like you!”
Porthos, without replying, took a second step away.
The procureuse thought she saw him in a dazzling cloud, all surrounded by duchesses and marquises, who were throwing sacks of gold at his feet.
“Stop, in heaven’s name, M. Porthos!” she cried. “Stop and let’s talk.”
“Talking with you brings me misfortune,” said Porthos.
“But, tell me, what are you asking for?”
“Nothing, for it comes down to the same thing as asking you for something.”
The procureuse hung on Porthos’s arm, and, carried away by her sorrow, cried to him:
“M. Porthos, I am ignorant of all that. Do I know what a horse is? Do I know what harness is?”
“You should have left it to me, who do know, Madame. But you wanted to be economical and, consequently, to lend at usury.”
“It was a wrong thing, M. Porthos, and I’ll make up for it, on my word of honor.”
“How so?” asked the musketeer.
“Listen. Tonight M. Coquenard is going to see M. le duc de Chaulnes, who has summoned him. It’s for a consultation that will last at least two hours. Come, we’ll be alone, and we’ll settle our accounts.”
“Capital! Now you’re talking, my dear!”
“You’ll forgive me?”
“We’ll see,” Porthos said majestically.
And the two separated, saying: till this evening.
“Devil take it!” thought Porthos, walking away. “It seems I’m finally getting close to Master Coquenard’s cupboard.”
XXXV
AT NIGHT ALL CATS ARE GRAY
That evening, awaited so impatiently by Porthos and by d’Artagnan, finally came.
D’Artagnan, as usual, appeared at Milady’s towards nine o’clock. He found her in a charming humor; never had she received him so well. Our Gascon saw at first glance that his note had been delivered and had had its effect.
Kitty came in bringing sherbets. Her mistress gave her a charming look, smiled her most gracious smile at her, but, alas! the poor girl was so sad that she did not even notice Milady’s benevolence.
D’Artagnan looked from one woman to the other, and was forced to admit that nature had made a mistake in forming them: to the grand lady she had given a vile and venal soul; to the soubrette she had given the heart of a duchess.
At ten o’clock Milady began to look restless. D’Artagnan understood what this meant. She glanced at the clock, got up, sat down again, smiled at d’Artagnan with a look that meant to say: you are very nice, of course, but you would be so charming if you left!
D’Artagnan got up and took his hat; Milady gave him her hand to kiss. The young man felt her press his hand and understood that it was with a feeling not of coquetry but of gratitude for his departure.
“She’s devilishly in love with him,” he murmured. Then he left.
This time Kitty was not waiting for him anywhere, either in the antechamber, or in the corridor, or under the gateway. D’Artagnan