LITMIR.BIZ

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she is the old wife of a procurator* of the Chatelet, monsieur, named Madame Coquenard, who, although she is at least fifty, still gives herself jealous airs. It struck me as very odd that a princess should live in the Rue aux Ours.”

      *Attorney

      “But how do you know all this?”

      “Because she flew into a great passion on receiving the letter, saying that Monsieur Porthos was a weathercock, and that she was sure it was for some woman he had received this wound.”

      “Has he been wounded, then?”

      “Oh, good Lord! What have I said?”

      “You said that Porthos had received a sword cut.”

      “Yes, but he has forbidden me so strictly to say so.”

      “And why so.”

      “Zounds, monsieur! Because he had boasted that he would perforate the stranger with whom you left him in dispute; whereas the stranger, on the contrary, in spite of all his rodomontades quickly threw him on his back. As Monsieur Porthos is a very boastful man, he insists that nobody shall know he has received this wound except the duchess, whom he endeavored to interest by an account of his adventure.”

      “It is a wound that confines him to his bed?”

      “Ah, and a master stroke, too, I assure you. Your friend’s soul must stick tight to his body.”

      “Were you there, then?”

      “Monsieur, I followed them from curiosity, so that I saw the combat without the combatants seeing me.”

      “And what took place?”

      “Oh! The affair was not long, I assure you. They placed themselves on guard; the stranger made a feint and a lunge, and that so rapidly that when Monsieur Porthos came to the PARADE, he had already three inches of steel in his breast. He immediately fell backward. The stranger placed the point of his sword at his throat; and Monsieur Porthos, finding himself at the mercy of his adversary, acknowledged himself conquered. Upon which the stranger asked his name, and learning that it was Porthos, and not d’Artagnan, he assisted him to rise, brought him back to the hotel, mounted his horse, and disappeared.”

      “So it was with Monsieur d’Artagnan this stranger meant to quarrel?”

      “It appears so.”

      “And do you know what has become of him?”

      “No, I never saw him until that moment, and have not seen him since.”

      “Very well; I know all that I wish to know. Porthos’s chamber is, you say, on the first story, Number One?”

      “Yes, monsieur, the handsomest in the inn—a chamber that I could have let ten times over.”

      “Bah! Be satisfied,” said d’Artagnan, laughing, “Porthos will pay you with the money of the Duchess Coquenard.”

      “Oh, monsieur, procurator’s wife or duchess, if she will but loosen her pursestrings, it will be all the same; but she positively answered that she was tired of the exigencies and infidelities of Monsieur Porthos, and that she would not send him a denier.”

      “And did you convey this answer to your guest?”

      “We took good care not to do that; he would have found in what fashion we had executed his commission.”

      “So that he still expects his money?”

      “Oh, Lord, yes, monsieur! Yesterday he wrote again; but it was his servant who this time put the letter in the post.”

      “Do you say the procurator’s wife is old and ugly?”

      “Fifty at least, monsieur, and not at all handsome, according to Pathaud’s account.”

      “In that case, you may be quite at ease; she will soon be softened. Besides, Porthos cannot owe you much.”

      “How, not much! Twenty good pistoles, already, without reckoning the doctor. He denies himself nothing; it may easily be seen he has been accustomed to live well.”

      “Never mind; if his mistress abandons him, he will find friends, I will answer for it. So, my dear host, be not uneasy, and continue to take all the care of him that his situation requires.”

      “Monsieur has promised me not to open his mouth about the procurator’s wife, and not to say a word of the wound?”

      “That’s agreed; you have my word.”

      “Oh, he would kill me!”

      “Don’t be afraid; he is not so much of a devil as he appears.”

      Saying these words, d’Artagnan went upstairs, leaving his host a little better satisfied with respect to two things in which he appeared to be very much interested—his debt and his life.

      At the top of the stairs, upon the most conspicuous door of the corridor, was traced in black ink a gigantic number “1.” d’Artagnan knocked, and upon the bidding to come in which came from inside, he entered the chamber.

      Porthos was in bed, and was playing a game at LANSQUENET with Mousqueton, to keep his hand in; while a spit loaded with partridges was turning before the fire, and on each side of a large chimneypiece, over two chafing dishes, were boiling two stewpans, from which exhaled a double odor of rabbit and fish stews, rejoicing to the smell. In addition to this he perceived that the top of a wardrobe and the marble of a commode were covered with empty bottles.

      At the sight of his friend, Porthos uttered a loud cry of joy; and Mousqueton, rising respectfully, yielded his place to him, and went to give an eye to the two stewpans, of which he appeared to have the particular inspection.

      “Ah, PARDIEU! Is that you?” said Porthos to d’Artagnan. “You are right welcome. Excuse my not coming to meet you; but,” added he, looking at d’Artagnan with a certain degree of uneasiness, “you know what has happened to me?”

      “No.”

      “Has the host told you nothing, then?”

      “I asked after you, and came up as soon as I could.”

      Porthos seemed to breathe more freely.

      “And what has happened to you, my dear Porthos?” continued d’Artagnan.

      “Why, on making a thrust at my adversary, whom I had already hit three times, and whom I meant to finish with the fourth, I put my foot on a stone, slipped, and strained my knee.”

      “Truly?”

      “Honor! Luckily for the rascal, for I should have left him dead on the spot, I assure you.”

      “And what has became of him?”

      “Oh, I don’t know; he had enough, and set off without waiting for the rest. But you, my dear d’Artagnan, what has happened to you?”

      “So that this strain of the knee,” continued d’Artagnan, “my dear Porthos, keeps you in bed?”

      “My God, that’s all. I shall be about again in a few days.”

      “Why did you not have yourself conveyed to Paris? You must be cruelly bored here.”

      “That was my intention; but, my dear friend, I have one thing to confess to you.”

      “What’s that?”

      “It is that as I was cruelly bored, as you say, and as I had the seventy-five pistoles in my pocket which you had distributed to me, in order to amuse myself I invited a gentleman who was traveling this way to walk up, and proposed a cast of dice. He accepted my challenge, and, my faith, my seventy-five pistoles passed from my pocket to his, without reckoning my horse, which he won into the bargain. But you, my dear d’Artagnan?”

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