I, the offspring of a noble family, who placed reliance upon your friendship--I was near dying of my wounds at first, and of hunger afterward, in a beggarly inn at Chantilly, without you ever deigning once to reply to the burning letters I addressed to you." "But, Monsieur Porthos," murmured the procurator's wife, who began to feel that, to judge by the conduct of the great ladies of the time, she was wrong.
"I, who had sacrificed for you the Baronne de--" "I know it well." "The Comtesse de--" "Monsieur Porthos, be generous!" "You are right, madame, and I will not finish." "But it was my husband who would not hear of lending." "Madame Coquenard," said Porthos, "remember the first letter you wrote me, and which I preserve engraved in my memory." The procurator's wife uttered a groan.
"Besides," said she, "the sum you required me to borrow was rather large." "Madame Coquenard, I gave you the preference.

I had but to write to the Duchesse--but I won't repeat her name, for I am incapable of compromising a woman; but this I know, that I had but to write to her and she would have sent me fifteen hundred." The procurator's wife shed a tear.
"Monsieur Porthos," said she, "I can assure you that you have severely punished me; and if in the time to come you should find yourself in a similar situation, you have but to apply to me." "Fie, madame, fie!" said Porthos, as if disgusted.

"Let us not talk about money, if you please; it is humiliating." "Then you no longer love me!" said the procurator's wife, slowly and sadly.
Porthos maintained a majestic silence.
"And that is the only reply you make?
Alas, I understand." "Think of the offense you have committed toward me, madame! It remains HERE!" said Porthos, placing his hand on his heart, and pressing it strongly.
"I will repair it, indeed I will, my dear Porthos." "Besides, what did I ask of you ?" resumed Porthos, with a movement of the shoulders full of good fellowship.

"A loan, nothing more! After all, I am not an unreasonable man.

I know you are not rich, Madame Coquenard, and that your husband is obliged to bleed his poor clients to squeeze a few paltry crowns from them.