she is not to be despised, in my opinion."

"Now, Monsieur Porthos, once more, and this is the last! Do you love me
still?"

"Ah, madame," said Porthos, in the most melancholy tone he could assume,
"when we are about to enter upon a campaign--a campaign, in which my
presentiments tell me I shall be killed--"

"Oh, don't talk of such things!" cried the procurator's wife, bursting
into tears.

"Something whispers me so," continued Porthos, becoming more and more
melancholy.

"Rather say that you have a new love."

"Not so; I speak frankly to you. No object affects me; and I even feel
here, at the bottom of my heart, something which speaks for you. But in
fifteen days, as you know, or as you do not know, this fatal campaign
is to open. I shall be fearfully preoccupied with my outfit. Then I
must make a journey to see my family, in the lower part of Brittany, to
obtain the sum necessary for my departure."

Porthos observed a last struggle between love and avarice.

"And as," continued he, "the duchess whom you saw at the church
has estates near to those of my family, we mean to make the journey
together. Journeys, you know, appear much shorter when we travel two in
company."

"Have you no friends in Paris, then, Monsieur Porthos?" said the
procurator's wife.

"I thought I had," said Porthos, resuming his melancholy air; "but I
have been taught my mistake."

"You have some!" cried the procurator's wife, in a transport that
surprised even herself. "Come to our house tomorrow. You are the son of
my aunt, consequently my cousin; you come from Noyon, in Picardy; you
have several lawsuits and no attorney. Can you recollect all that?"

"Perfectly, madame."

"Come at dinnertime."

"Very well."

"And be upon your guard before my husband, who is rather shrewd,
notwithstanding his seventy-six years."

"Seventy-six years! PESTE! That's a fine age!" replied Porthos.

"A great age, you mean, Monsieur Porthos. Yes, the poor man may be
expected to leave me a widow, any hour," continued she, throwing a
significant glance at Porthos. "Fortunately, by our marriage contract,
the survivor takes everything."

"All?"

"Yes, all."

"You are a woman of precaution, I see, my dear Madame Coquenard," said
Porthos, squeezing the hand of the procurator's wife tenderly.

"We are then reconciled, dear Monsieur Porthos?" said she, simpering.

"For life," replied Porthos, in the same manner.

"Till we meet again, then, dear