A Procurator’s Dinner

           HoweverbrillianthadbeenthepartplayedbyPorthosintheduel,ithadnotmadehimforgetthedinneroftheprocurator’swife.

           OnthemorrowhereceivedthelasttouchesofMousqueton’sbrushforanhour,andtookhiswaytowardtheRueauxOurswiththestepsofamanwhowasdoublyinfavorwithfortune.

           Hisheartbeat,butnotliked’Artagnan’swithayoungandimpatientlove.No;amorematerialintereststirredhisblood.Hewasaboutatlasttopassthatmysteriousthreshold,toclimbthoseunknownstairsbywhich,onebyone,theoldcrownsofM.Coquenardhadascended.Hewasabouttoseeinrealityacertaincofferofwhichhehadtwentytimesbeheldtheimageinhisdreams—acofferlonganddeep,locked,bolted,fastenedinthewall;acofferofwhichhehadsooftenheard,andwhichthehands—alittlewrinkled,itistrue,butstillnotwithoutelegance—oftheprocurator’swifewereabouttoopentohisadmiringlooks.

           Andthenhe—awandererontheearth,amanwithoutfortune,amanwithoutfamily,asoldieraccustomedtoinns,cabarets,taverns,andrestaurants,aloverofwineforcedtodependuponchancetreats—wasabouttopartakeoffamilymeals,toenjoythepleasuresofacomfortableestablishment,andtogivehimselfuptothoselittleattentionswhich"theharderoneis,themoretheyplease,"asoldsoldierssay.

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