Coquenard, and that your husband is obliged to bleed his poor clients to squeeze a few paltry crowns from them. Oh! If you were a duchess, a marchioness, or a countess, it would be quite a different thing; it would be unpardonable.”
The procurator’s wife was piqued.
“Please to know, M. Porthos,” said she, “that my strongbox, the strongbox of a procurator’s wife though it may be, is better filled than those of your affected minxes.”
“That doubles the offense,” said Porthos, disengaging his arm from that of the procurator’s wife; “for if you are rich, Madame Coquenard, then there is no excuse for your refusal.”
“When I said rich,” replied the procurator’s wife, who saw that she had gone too far, “you must not take the word literally. I am not precisely rich, though I am pretty well off.”
“Hold, Madame,” said Porthos, “let us say no more upon the subject, I beg of you. You have misunderstood me, all sympathy is extinct between us.”
“Ingrate that you are!”
“Ah! I advise you to complain!” said Porthos.
“Begone, then, to your beautiful duchess; I will detain you no longer.”
“And she is not to be despised, in my opinion.”
“Now, M. Porthos, once more, and this is the last! Do you love me still?”