The Three Musketeers (Les Trois Mousquetaires) is a novel by Alexandre Dumas, père. It recounts the adventures of a young man named d'Artagnan after he leaves home to become a musketeer. D'Artagnan is not one of the musketeers of the title; those are his friends Athos, Porthos, and Aramis—inseparable friends who live by the motto, \'One for all, and all for one\'. The story of d'Artagnan is continued in Twenty Years After and The Vicomte de Bragelonne. Those three novels by Dumas are together known as the D'Artagnan Romances. The Three Musketeers was first published in serial form in the magazine Le Siècle between March and July 1844.
" "Madame Coquenard, I gave you the preference. I had but to write to the Duchessebut 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
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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. Oh! If you were a duchess, a marchioness, or a countess, it would be quite a different thing; it would be unpardonable." The procurator's wife was piqued. "Please to know, Monsieur Porthos," said she, "that my strongbox, the strongbox of a procurator's wife though it may be, is better filled than those of your affected minxes."
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"The doubles the offense," said Porthos, disengaging his arm from that of the procurator's wife; "for if you are rich, Madame Coquenard, then there is no excuse for your refusal." "When I said rich," replied the procurator's wife, who saw that she had gone too far, "you must not take the word literally. I am not precisely rich, though I am pretty well off." "Hold, madame," said Porthos, "let us say no more upon the subject, I beg of you. You have misunderstood me, all sympathy is extinct between us." "Ingrate that you are!" "Ah! I advise you to complain!" said Porthos. "Begone, then, to your beautiful duchess; I will detain you no longer." "And she is not to be despised, in my opinion." "Now, Monsieur Porthos, once more, and this is the last! Do you love me
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" "Ah, madame," said Porthos, in the most melancholy tone he could assume, "when we are about to enter upon a campaigna campaign, in which my presentiments tell me I shall be killed" "Oh, don't talk of such things!" cried the procurator's wife, bursting into tears. "Something whispers me so," continued Porthos, becoming more and
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