“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.

Porthos regretted that he had not at once made the lady of the red cushion a princess.

“Ah, you are quite the pet of the ladies, M. Porthos!” resumed the procurator’s wife, with a sigh.