D'Artagnan, the King Maker — page 209: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

196 A Waive. sealed up as if they had been passing false coin and the mint master had come down upon them and put up the shutters! Apropos of mints, what the mischief do they give me the equivalent for my—that is, D’Artagnan’s— Bucephalus in an order on the mint for? There must be precious little of hard money where the high officials snap at the bribes the Prince buys them with throwgh that wily Soleiman. Everything locked up! MHere will be the nice fare of the mouse starver’s table!” The church bells rang, for it was high noon; but it was not an alarm—only for the Angelus, set at that hour by Pope ‘Calixtus. The thirsty and sharp-set Porthos did not recite the aves prescribed while the bells reverberated. What he grumbled sounded more like imprecations on this churlish capital. “Confound a rebellion, if it makes shopkeepers squir- rels of our kind, sneaking nuts into their hollows and munching their hoards, when better creatures prowl the woods gnashing their teeth. Never since the first hermit brooded by himself have I felt such a yearning for a joint and a loaf, saying nothing of a flagon of sack, and this the country of origin for sack! Ah, if the new king reforms the price of canary to six sous the quart he will win this crown more likely than offering reforms of other matters, for all the topers will be on his side. Don’t tell me—these are topers who have not had their usual potations, these who are loitering, hanging the head, with their tongues a yard out of their mouths! I know the signs of a drouth! “Folderol!”’ snarled he, as a flock of women fluttered by, wrapped up to the nose hike the Algerians, and mumbling in the woolen muzzles: “Domine, salva med!” “A sliice of dumpling would be the best salve, you are right, ladies!” He sniffed like a beagle tracing a scent. “My senses fail me, or I smell that Bergamasco wine, of which I have two puncheons in Pierrefonds cellars—pray Heaven, my stout Mouston does not tap them and fet the spigot leak when ‘he goes to sleep between them! “What are those beggars doing yonder? They must have a keg of something enthralling amidst them to take Gomicbooks.c¢o