iously. It was plain that
this mode of proceeding piqued the lady in the black hood, for she bit
her lips till they bled, scratched the end of her nose, and could not
sit still in her seat.

Porthos, seeing this, retwisted his mustache, elongated his imperial a
second time, and began to make signals to a beautiful lady who was near
the choir, and who not only was a beautiful lady, but still further, no
doubt, a great lady--for she had behind her a Negro boy who had brought
the cushion on which she knelt, and a female servant who held the
emblazoned bag in which was placed the book from which she read the
Mass.

The lady with the black hood followed through all their wanderings the
looks of Porthos, and perceived that they rested upon the lady with the
velvet cushion, the little Negro, and the maid-servant.

During this time Porthos played close. It was almost imperceptible
motions of his eyes, fingers placed upon the lips, little assassinating
smiles, which really did assassinate the disdained beauty.

Then she cried, "Ahem!" under cover of the MEA CULPA, striking her
breast so vigorously that everybody, even the lady with the red cushion,
turned round toward her. Porthos paid no attention. Nevertheless, he
understood it all, but was deaf.

The lady with the red cushion produced a great effect--for she was
very handsome--upon the lady with the black hood, who saw in her a rival
really to be dreaded; a great effect upon Porthos, who thought her
much prettier than the lady with the black hood; a great effect upon
d'Artagnan, who recognized in her the lady of Meung, of Calais, and of
Dover, whom his persecutor, the man with the scar, had saluted by the
name of Milady.

D'Artagnan, without losing sight of the lady of the red cushion,
continued to watch the proceedings of Porthos, which amused him greatly.
He guessed that the lady of the black hood was the procurator's wife of
the Rue aux Ours, which was the more probable from the church of St. Leu
being not far from that locality.

He guessed, likewise, by induction, that Porthos was taking his revenge
for the defeat of Chantilly, when the procurator's wife had proved so
refractory with respect to her purse.

Amid all this, d'Artagnan remarked also that not one countenance
responded to the gallantries of Porthos. There were only chimeras and
illusions; but for real love, for true jealousy, is there any reality
except illusions and chimeras?

The sermon over, the