Chapter 4 - Page 2

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.

“My dear Percerin,” said d’Artagnan, “you will make a dress for the baron? ’Tis I who ask you.”

“To you I will not say nay, Captain.”

“But that is not all; you will make it for him at once.”

“‘Tis impossible before eight days.”

“That, then, is as much as to refuse, because the dress is wanted for the fête at Vaux.”

“I repeat that it is impossible,” returned the obstinate old man.

“By no means, dear M. Percerin, above all if I ask you,” said a mild voice at the door,- a silvery voice which made d’Artagnan prick up his ears. It was the voice of Aramis.

“M. d’Herblay!” cried the tailor.

“Aramis!” murmured d’Artagnan.

“Ah, our bishop!” said Porthos.

“Good-morning, d’Artagnan; good-morning, Porthos; good-morning, my dear friends’” said Aramis. “Come, come, M. Percerin, make the baron’s dress, and I will answer for it you will gratify M. Fouquet”; and he accompanied the words with a sign which seemed to say, “Agree, and dismiss them.”

It appeared that Aramis had over M. Percerin an influence superior even to d’Artagnan’s; for the tailor bowed in assent, and turning round upon Porthos, “Go and get measured on the other side,” said he, rudely.

Porthos colored in a formidable manner. D’Artagnan saw the storm coming, and addressing Moliere said to him in an undertone, “You see before you, my dear Monsieur, a man who considers himself disgraced if you measure the flesh and bones that Heaven has given him; study this type for me, Aristophanes, and profit by it.”

Moliere had no need of encouragement, and his gaze dwelt upon the baron Porthos. “Monsieur,” he said, “if you will come with me, I will make them take your measure