“Ah, Madame,” said Porthos, in the most melancholy tone he could assume, “when we are about to enter upon a campaign—a campaign, in which my presentiments tell me I shall be killed—”
“Oh, don’t talk of such things!” cried the procurator’s wife, bursting into tears.
“Something whispers me so,” continued Porthos, becoming more and more melancholy.
“Rather say that you have a new love.”
“Not so; I speak frankly to you. No object affects me; and I even feel here, at the bottom of my heart, something which speaks for you. But in fifteen days, as you know, or as you do not know, this fatal campaign is to open. I shall be fearfully preoccupied with my outfit. Then I must make a journey to see my family, in the lower part of Brittany, to obtain