“Certainly, Madame,” said Porthos, winking to himself, as a gambler does who laughs at the dupe he is about to pluck.
At that moment d’Artagnan passed in pursuit of Milady; he cast a passing glance at Porthos, and beheld this triumphant look.
Eh, eh! said he, reasoning to himself according to the strangely easy morality of that gallant period, there is one who will be equipped in good time!
Porthos, yielding to the pressure of the arm of the procurator’s wife, as a bark yields to the rudder, arrived at the cloister St. Magloire—a little-frequented passage, enclosed with a turnstile at each end. In the daytime nobody was seen there but mendicants devouring their crusts, and children at play.
“Ah, M. Porthos,” cried the procurator’s wife, when she was assured that no one who was a stranger to the population of the locality could either see or hear her, “ah, M. Porthos, you are a great conqueror, as it appears!”
“I, Madame?” said Porthos, drawing himself up proudly; “how so?”
“The signs just now, and the holy water! But that must be a princess, at least—that lady with her Negro boy and her maid!”
“My God! Madame, you are deceived,” said Porthos; “she is simply a duchess.”
“And that running footman who waited at the door, and that carriage with a coachman in grand livery who sat waiting on his seat?”
Porthos had seen neither the footman nor the carriage, but with the eye of a jealous woman, Madame Coquenard had seen everything.