hen.

After the soup the maid brought a boiled fowl--a piece of magnificence
which caused the eyes of the diners to dilate in such a manner that they
seemed ready to burst.

"One may see that you love your family, Madame Coquenard," said the
procurator, with a smile that was almost tragic. "You are certainly
treating your cousin very handsomely!"

The poor fowl was thin, and covered with one of those thick, bristly
skins through which the teeth cannot penetrate with all their efforts.
The fowl must have been sought for a long time on the perch, to which it
had retired to die of old age.

"The devil!" thought Porthos, "this is poor work. I respect old age, but
I don't much like it boiled or roasted."

And he looked round to see if anybody partook of his opinion; but on
the contrary, he saw nothing but eager eyes which were devouring, in
anticipation, that sublime fowl which was the object of his contempt.

Mme. Coquenard drew the dish toward her, skillfully detached the two
great black feet, which she placed upon her husband's plate, cut off the
neck, which with the head she put on one side for herself, raised the
wing for Porthos, and then returned the bird otherwise intact to the
servant who had brought it in, who disappeared with it before the
Musketeer had time to examine the variations which disappointment
produces upon faces, according to the characters and temperaments of
those who experience it.

In the place of the fowl a dish of haricot beans made its appearance--an
enormous dish in which some bones of mutton that at first sight
one might have believed to have some meat on them pretended to show
themselves.

But the clerks were not the dupes of this deceit, and their lugubrious
looks settled down into resigned countenances.

Mme. Coquenard distributed this dish to the young men with the
moderation of a good housewife.

The time for wine came. M. Coquenard poured from a very small stone
bottle the third of a glass for each of the young men, served himself
in about the same proportion, and passed the bottle to Porthos and Mme.
Coquenard.

The young men filled up their third of a glass with water; then, when
they had drunk half the glass, they filled it up again, and continued
to do so. This brought them, by the end of the repast, to swallowing
a drink which from the color of the ruby had passed to that of a pale
topaz.

Porthos ate his wing of the fowl timidly, and shuddered when he felt the
knee