“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.”