attacked made a dive and disappeared under the counter. The line of discontented lords formed a truly remarkable picture. Our captain of musketeers, a man of sure and rapid observation, took it all in at a glance; and having run over the groups, his eye rested on a man in front of him. This man, seated upon a stool, scarcely showed his head above the counter that sheltered him. He was about forty years of age, with a melancholy aspect, pale face, and soft luminous eyes. He was looking at D’Artagnan and the rest, with his chin resting upon his hand, like a calm and inquiring amateur. Only on perceiving, and doubtless recognizing, our captain, he pulled his hat down over his eyes. It was this action, perhaps, that attracted D’Artagnan’s attention. If so, the gentleman who had pulled down his hat produced an effect entirely different from what he had desired. In other respects his costume was plain, and his hair evenly cut enough for customers, who were not close observers, to take him for a mere tailor’s apprentice, perched behind the board, and carefully stitching cloth or velvet. Nevertheless, this man held up his head too often to be very productively employed with his fingers. D’Artagnan was not deceived,—not he; and he saw at once that if this man was working at anything, it certainly was not at velvet.
“Eh!” said he, addressing this man, “and so you have become a tailor’s boy, Monsieur Moliere!”
“Hush, M. d’Artagnan!” replied the man, softly, “you will make them recognize me.”
“Well, and what harm?”
“The fact is, there is no harm, but—”
“You were going to say there is no good in doing it either, is it not so?”
“Alas! no; for I was occupied in examining some excellent figures.”
“Go on—go on, Monsieur Moliere. I quite understand the interest you take in the plates—I will not disturb your studies.”
“Thank you.”
“But on one condition; that you tell me where M. Percerin really is.”
“Oh! willingly; in his own room. Only—”
“Only that one can’t enter it?”
“Unapproachable.”
“For everybody?”
“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 Monsieur 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! Monsieur 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 a very promising one, for he immediately rose and led the way into the adjoining chamber.
During all this time the noble mob was slowly heaving away, 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 luster. Perceiving D’Artagnan, he put the silk aside, and came to meet him, by no means radiant with joy, and by no means courteous, but, take it altogether, in a tolerably civil manner.
“The captain of the king’s musketeers will excuse me, I am sure, for I am engaged.”
“Eh! yes, on the king’s costumes; I know that, my dear Monsieur Percerin. You are making three, they tell me.”
“Five, my dear sir, 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, Monsieur 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?”
“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 to be found when one chooses to seek it.”
Percerin turned crimson; an ominous sign indeed in old men blanched by age.
“Monsieur is quite at liberty 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 friend of mine, but more, a friend of M. Fouquet’s.”
“Ah! ah!” exclaimed the tailor, “that is another thing.” Then turning to Porthos, “Monsieur le baron is attached to the superintendent?” he inquired.
“I am attached to myself,” shouted Porthos, at the very moment that 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
