“Oh, willingly! in his own room. Only-”
“Only that one can’t enter it?”
“Unapproachable.”
“For everybody?”
“For everybody. He brought me here, so that I might be at my ease to make my observations, and then he went away.”
“Well, my dear M. Moliere, but you will go and tell him I am here.”
“I!” exclaimed Moliere, in the tone of a courageous dog from which you snatch the bone it has legitimately gained; “I disturb myself! Ah, M. d’Artagnan, how hard you are upon me!”
“If you don’t go directly and tell M. Percerin that I am here, my dear Moliere,” said d’Artagnan, in a low tone, “I warn you of one thing,- that I won’t exhibit to you the friend I have brought with me.”
Moliere indicated Porthos by an imperceptible gesture. “This gentleman, is it not?”
“Yes.”
Moliere fixed upon Porthos one of those looks which penetrate the minds and hearts of men. The subject doubtless appeared very promising to him, for he immediately rose and led the way into the adjoining chamber.
Chapter XXXII: The Samples
DURING all this time the crowd was slowly rolling on, leaving at every angle of the counter either a murmur or a menace, as the waves leave foam or scattered seaweed on the sands, when they retire with the ebbing tide. In about ten minutes Moliere reappeared, making another sign to d’Artagnan from under the hangings. The latter hurried after him, with Porthos in the rear, and after threading a labyrinth of corridors, introduced him to M. Percerin’s room. The old man, with his sleeves turned up, was gathering up in folds a piece of gold-flowered brocade, so as the better to exhibit its lustre. Perceiving d’Artagnan, he put the silk aside, and came to meet him, by no means radiant and by no means courteous, but on the whole in a tolerably civil manner.
“The captain of the Musketeers will excuse me, I am sure, for I am engaged.”
“Eh! yes, on the King’s costumes; I know that, my dear M. Percerin. You are making three, they tell me.”
“Five, my dear monsieur,- five!”
“Three or five, ’tis all the same to me, my dear Monsieur; and I know that you will make them most exquisitely.”
“Yes, I know. Once made, they will be the most beautiful in the world, I do not deny it; but that they may be the most beautiful in the world, they must first be made; and to do this, Captain, I am pressed for time.”
“Oh, bah! there are two days yet; ’tis much more than you require, M. Percerin,” said d’Artagnan, in the coolest possible manner.
Percerin raised his head with the air of a man little accustomed to be contradicted, even in his whims; but d’Artagnan did not pay the least attention to the airs which the illustrious tailor began to assume.
“My dear M. Percerin,” he continued, “I bring you a customer.”
“Ah! ah!” exclaimed Percerin, crossly.
“M. le Baron du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds,” continued d’Artagnan.
Percerin attempted a bow, which found no favor in the eyes of the terrible Porthos, who from his first entry into the room had been regarding the tailor askance.
“A very good friend of mine,” concluded d’Artagnan.
“I will attend to Monsieur,” said Percerin, “but later.”
“Later? but when?”
“Why, when I have time.”
“You have already told my valet as much,” broke in Porthos, discontentedly.
“Very likely,” said Percerin; “I am nearly always pushed for time.”
“My friend,” returned Porthos, sententiously, “there is always time when one chooses to find it.”
Percerin turned crimson,- a very ominous sign indeed in old men blanched by age. “Monsieur,” said he, “is very free to confer his custom elsewhere.”
“Come, come, Percerin,” interposed d’Artagnan, “you are not in a good temper to-day. Well, I will say one more word to you, which will bring you on your knees: Monsieur is not only a good friend of mine, but more,- a friend of M. Fouquet.”
“Ah! ah!” exclaimed the tailor, “that is another thing.” Then turning to Porthos, “Monsieur the Baron is attached to the superintendent?” he inquired.
“I am attached to myself,” shouted Porthos, at the very moment when the tapestry was raised to introduce a new speaker in the dialogue. Moliere was all observation; d’Artagnan laughed; Porthos swore.