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- Александр Дюма
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- Стр. 406/849
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"
Oh
,
do
n'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
?
"
