of the procurator's wife under the table, as it came in search of
his. He also drank half a glass of this sparingly served wine, and found
it to be nothing but that horrible Montreuil--the terror of all expert
palates.

M. Coquenard saw him swallowing this wine undiluted, and sighed deeply.

"Will you eat any of these beans, Cousin Porthos?" said Mme. Coquenard,
in that tone which says, "Take my advice, don't touch them."

"Devil take me if I taste one of them!" murmured Porthos to himself, and
then said aloud, "Thank you, my cousin, I am no longer hungry."

There was silence. Porthos could hardly keep his countenance.

The procurator repeated several times, "Ah, Madame Coquenard! Accept my
compliments; your dinner has been a real feast. Lord, how I have eaten!"

M. Coquenard had eaten his soup, the black feet of the fowl, and the
only mutton bone on which there was the least appearance of meat.

Porthos fancied they were mystifying him, and began to curl his mustache
and knit his eyebrows; but the knee of Mme. Coquenard gently advised him
to be patient.

This silence and this interruption in serving, which were unintelligible
to Porthos, had, on the contrary, a terrible meaning for the clerks.
Upon a look from the procurator, accompanied by a smile from Mme.
Coquenard, they arose slowly from the table, folded their napkins more
slowly still, bowed, and retired.

"Go, young men! go and promote digestion by working," said the
procurator, gravely.

The clerks gone, Mme. Coquenard rose and took from a buffet a piece of
cheese, some preserved quinces, and a cake which she had herself made of
almonds and honey.

M. Coquenard knit his eyebrows because there were too many good things.
Porthos bit his lips because he saw not the wherewithal to dine. He
looked to see if the dish of beans was still there; the dish of beans
had disappeared.

"A positive feast!" cried M. Coquenard, turning about in his chair, "a
real feast, EPULCE EPULORUM. Lucullus dines with Lucullus."

Porthos looked at the bottle, which was near him, and hoped that with
wine, bread, and cheese, he might make a dinner; but wine was wanting,
the bottle was empty. M. and Mme. Coquenard did not seem to observe it.

"This is fine!" said Porthos to himself; "I am prettily caught!"

He passed his tongue over a spoonful of preserves, and stuck his teeth
into the sticky pastry of Mme. Coquenard.

"Now," said he, "the sacrifice is consummated! Ah! if I