“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 traitor!” “Till we meet again, my forgetful charmer!” “Tomorrow, my angel!” “Tomorrow, flame of my life!” Chapter XXX. D’ARTAGNAN AND THE ENGLISHMAN D’Artagnan followed Milady without being perceived by her. He saw her get into her carriage, and heard her order the coachman to drive to St. Germain. It was useless to try to keep pace on foot with a carriage drawn by two powerful horses. D’Artagnan therefore returned to the Rue Férou. In the Rue de Seine he met Planchet, who had stopped before the house of a pastry cook, and was contemplating with ecstasy a cake of the most appetizing appearance. He ordered him to go and saddle two horses in M. de Tréville’s stables—one for himself, D’Artagnan, and one for Planchet—and bring them to Athos’s place. Once for all, Tréville had placed his stable at D’Artagnan’s service.