“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 M. 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?”