Porthos, without reply, retreated a second step. The procurator’s wife fancied she saw him in a brilliant cloud, all surrounded by duchesses and marchionesses, who cast bags of money at his feet. “Stop, in the name of heaven, Monsieur Porthos!” cried she. “Stop, and let us talk.” “Talking with you brings me misfortune,” said Porthos. “But, tell me, what do you ask?” “Nothing; for that amounts to the same thing as if I asked you for something.” The procurator’s wife hung upon the arm of Porthos, and in the violence of her grief she cried out, “Monsieur Porthos, I am ignorant of all such matters! How should I know what a horse is? How should I know what horse furniture is?” “You should have left it to me, then, madame, who know what they are; but you wished to be frugal, and consequently to lend at usury.” “It was wrong, Monsieur Porthos; but I will repair that wrong, upon my word of honor.” “How so?” asked the Musketeer. “Listen. This evening M. Coquenard is going to the house of the Duc de Chaulnes, who has sent for him. It is for a consultation, which will last three hours at least. Come! We shall be alone, and can make up our accounts.” “In good time. Now you talk, my dear.” “You pardon me?” “We shall see,” said Porthos, majestically; and the two separated saying, “Till this evening.” “The devil!” thought Porthos, as he walked away, “it appears I am getting nearer to Monsieur Coquenard’s strongbox at last.” Chapter XXXV. A GASCON A MATCH FOR CUPID The evening so impatiently waited for by Porthos and by D’Artagnan at last arrived. As was his custom, D’Artagnan presented himself at Milady’s at about nine o’clock. He found her in a charming humor. Never had he been so well received. Our Gascon knew, by the first glance of his eye, that his billet had been delivered, and that this billet had had its effect. Kitty entered to bring some sherbet. Her mistress put on a charming face, and smiled on her graciously; but alas! the poor girl was so sad that she did not even notice Milady’s condescension. D’Artagnan looked at the two women, one after the other, and was forced to acknowledge that in his opinion Dame Nature had made a mistake in their formation. To the great lady she had given a heart vile and venal; to the _soubrette_ she had given the heart of a duchess. At ten o’clock Milady began to appear restless. D’Artagnan knew what she wanted. She looked at the clock, rose, reseated herself, smiled at D’Artagnan with an air which said, “You are very amiable, no doubt, but you would be _charming_ if you would only depart.” D’Artagnan rose and took his hat; Milady gave him her hand to kiss. The young man felt her press his hand, and comprehended that this was a sentiment, not of coquetry, but of gratitude because of his departure. “She loves him devilishly,” he murmured. Then he went out.