This time Porthos received the blow right in his stomach, and felt it. It appeared likewise that Madame Coquenard was not less affected by it on her part, for she added, “My cousin will not return if he finds that we do not treat him kindly; but otherwise he has so little time to pass in Paris, and consequently to spare to us, that we must entreat him to give us every instant he can call his own previous to his departure.”
“Oh, my legs, my poor legs! where are you?” murmured Coquenard, and he tried to smile.
This succor, which came to Porthos at the moment in which he was attacked in his gastronomic hopes, inspired much gratitude in the musketeer toward the procurator’s wife.
The hour of dinner soon arrived. They passed into the eating room—a large dark room situated opposite the kitchen.
The clerks, who, as it appeared, had smelled unusual perfumes in the house, were of military punctuality, and held their stools in hand quite ready to sit down. Their jaws moved preliminarily with fearful threatenings.
Indeed! thought Porthos, casting a glance at the three hungry clerks—for the errand boy, as might be expected, was not admitted to the honors of the magisterial table, in my cousin’s place, I would not keep such gourmands! They look like shipwrecked sailors who have not eaten for six weeks.
M. Coquenard entered, pushed along upon his armchair with casters by Madame Coquenard, whom Porthos assisted in rolling her husband up to the table. He had scarcely entered when he began to agitate his nose and his jaws after the example of his clerks.
“Oh, oh!” said he; “here is a soup which is rather inviting.”