procurator's wife advanced toward the holy font.
Porthos went before her, and instead of a finger, dipped his whole hand
in. The procurator's wife smiled, thinking that it was for her Porthos
had put himself to this trouble; but she was cruelly and promptly
undeceived. When she was only about three steps from him, he turned
his head round, fixing his eyes steadfastly upon the lady with the red
cushion, who had risen and was approaching, followed by her black boy
and her woman.

When the lady of the red cushion came close to Porthos, Porthos drew his
dripping hand from the font. The fair worshipper touched the great
hand of Porthos with her delicate fingers, smiled, made the sign of the
cross, and left the church.

This was too much for the procurator's wife; she doubted not there was
an intrigue between this lady and Porthos. If she had been a great lady
she would have fainted; but as she was only a procurator's wife, she
contented herself saying to the Musketeer with concentrated fury, "Eh,
Monsieur Porthos, you don't offer me any holy water?"

Porthos, at the sound of that voice, started like a man awakened from a
sleep of a hundred years.

"Ma-madame!" cried he; "is that you? How is your husband, our dear
Monsieur Coquenard? Is he still as stingy as ever? Where can my eyes
have been not to have seen you during the two hours of the sermon?"

"I was within two paces of you, monsieur," replied the procurator's
wife; "but you did not perceive me because you had no eyes but for the
pretty lady to whom you just now gave the holy water."

Porthos pretended to be confused. "Ah," said he, "you have remarked--"

"I must have been blind not to have seen."

"Yes," said Porthos, "that is a duchess of my acquaintance whom I have
great trouble to meet on account of the jealousy of her husband, and who
sent me word that she should come today to this poor church, buried in
this vile quarter, solely for the sake of seeing me."

"Monsieur Porthos," said the procurator's wife, "will you have the
kindness to offer me your arm for five minutes? I have something to say
to you."

"Certainly, madame," said Porthos, winking to himself, as a gambler does
who laughs at the dupe he is about to pluck.

At that moment d'Artagnan passed in pursuit of Milady; he cast a passing
glance at Porthos, and beheld this triumphant look.

"Eh, eh!" said he, reasoning to himself according to the strangely easy
morality of that gallant period, "t