He was particularly touched by the liberty which was permitted him to plunge his large hands into the boxes of dried fruits and preserves, into the sacks of nuts and almonds, and into the drawers full of sweetmeats.

So that, notwithstanding Planchet's pressing invitations to go upstairs to the _entresol_, he chose as his favorite seat, during the evening which he had to spend at Planchet's house, the shop itself, where his fingers could always find whatever his nose had first detected for him.

The delicious figs from Provence, filberts from the forest, Tours plums, were subjects of his interrupted attention for five consecutive hours.
His teeth, like millstones, cracked heaps of nuts, the shells of which were scattered all over the floor, where they were trampled by every one who went in and out of the shop; Porthos pulled from the stalk with his lips, at one mouthful, bunches of the rich Muscatel raisins with their beautiful bloom and a half-pound of which passed at one gulp from his mouth to his stomach.

In one of the corners of the shop, Planchet's assistants, crouching down in a fright, looked at each other without venturing to open their lips.

They did not know who Porthos was, for they had never seen him before.