“Perfectly, Madame.”
“Come at dinnertime.”
“Very well.”
“And be upon your guard before my husband, who is rather shrewd, notwithstanding his seventy-six years.”
“Seventy-six years! Peste! That’s a fine age!” replied Porthos.
“A great age, you mean, M. Porthos. Yes, the poor man may be expected to leave me a widow, any hour,” continued she, throwing a significant glance at Porthos. “Fortunately, by our marriage contract, the survivor takes everything.”
“All?”
“Yes, all.”
“You are a woman of precaution, I see, my dear Madame Coquenard,” said Porthos, squeezing the hand of the procurator’s wife tenderly.
“We are then reconciled, dear M. Porthos?” said she, simpering.
“For life,” replied Porthos, in the same manner.
“Till we meet again, then, dear traitor!”
“Till we meet again, my forgetful charmer!”
“Tomorrow, my angel!”
“Tomorrow, flame of my life!”