Twenty Years After - The Original Classic Edition. Dumas d.Ä. Alexandre

from the depth of his soul--

       the last trace of youth and happiness that had survived life's disillusions.

       "And you--fellows," resumed Mousqueton, "stay near Monsieur le Comte d'Artagnan and pay him every attention in your power whilst I go to prepare my lord for his visit."

       And mounting his horse Mousqueton rode off down the avenue on the grass at a hand gallop.

       "Ah, there! there's something promising," said D'Artagnan. "No mysteries, no cloak to hide one's self in, no cunning policy here; people laugh outright, they weep for joy here. I see nothing but faces a yard broad; in short, it seems to me that nature herself wears a holiday garb, and that the trees, instead of leaves and flowers, are covered with red and green ribbons as on gala days."

       "As for me," said Planchet, "I seem to smell, from this place, even, a most delectable perfume of fine roast meat, and to see the scullions in a row by the hedge, hailing our approach. Ah! sir, what a cook must Monsieur Pierrefonds have, when he was so fond of eating and drinking, even whilst he was only called Monsieur Porthos!"

       "Say no more!" cried D'Artagnan. "If the reality corresponds with appearances I am lost; for a man so well off will never change his

       happy condition, and I shall fail with him, as I have already done with Aramis."

       11. How D'Artagnan, in discovering the Retreat of Porthos, perceives that Wealth does not necessarily produce Happiness. D'Artagnan passed through the iron gate and arrived in front of the chateau. He alighted as he saw a species of giant on the steps.

       Let us do justice to D'Artagnan. Independently of every selfish wish, his heart palpitated with joy when he saw that tall form and

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       martial demeanor, which recalled to him a good and brave man.

       He ran to Porthos and threw himself into his arms; the whole body of servants, arranged in a semicircle at a respectful distance,

       looked on with humble curiosity. Mousqueton, at the head of them, wiped his eyes. Porthos linked his arm in that of his friend.

       "Ah! how delightful to see you again, dear friend!" he cried, in a voice which was now changed from a baritone into a bass, "you've not then forgotten me?"

       "Forget you! oh! dear Du Vallon, does one forget the happiest days of flowery youth, one's dearest friends, the dangers we have

       dared together? On the contrary, there is not an hour we have passed together that is not present to my memory."

       "Yes, yes," said Porthos, trying to give to his mustache a curl which it had lost whilst he had been alone. "Yes, we did some fine

       things in our time and we gave that poor cardinal a few threads to unravel." And he heaved a sigh.

       "Under any circumstances," he resumed, "you are welcome, my dear friend; you will help me to recover my spirits; to-morrow we will hunt the hare on my plain, which is a superb tract of land, or pursue the deer in my woods, which are magnificent. I have four harriers which are considered the swiftest in the county, and a pack of hounds which are unequalled for twenty leagues around."

       And Porthos heaved another sigh.

       "But, first," interposed D'Artagnan, "you must present me to Madame du Vallon."

       A third sigh from Porthos.

       "I lost Madame du Vallon two years ago," he said, "and you find me still in affliction on that account. That was the reason why I left my Chateau du Vallon near Corbeil, and came to my estate, Bracieux. Poor Madame du Vallon! her temper was uncertain, but she came at last to accustom herself to my little ways and understand my little wishes."

       "So you are free now, and rich?"

       "Alas!" groaned Porthos, "I am a widower and have forty thousand francs a year. Let us go to breakfast."

       "I shall be happy to do so; the morning air has made me hungry." "Yes," said Porthos; "my air is excellent."

       They went into the chateau; there was nothing but gilding, high and low; the cornices were gilt, the mouldings were gilt, the legs and

       arms of the chairs were gilt. A table, ready set out, awaited them. "You see," said Porthos, "this is my usual style."

       "Devil take me!" answered D'Artagnan, "I wish you joy of it. The king has nothing like it."

       "No," answered Porthos, "I hear it said that he is very badly fed by the cardinal, Monsieur de Mazarin. Taste this cutlet, my dear

       D'Artagnan; 'tis off one of my sheep."

       "You have very tender mutton and I wish you joy of it." said D'Artagnan. "Yes, the sheep are fed in my meadows, which are excellent pasture." "Give me another cutlet."

       "No, try this hare, which I had killed yesterday in one of my warrens."

       "Zounds! what a flavor!" cried D'Artagnan; "ah! they are fed on thyme only, your hares."

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       "And how do you like my wine?" asked Porthos; "it is pleasant, isn't it?"

       "Capital!"

       "It is nothing, however, but a wine of the country." "Really?"

       "Yes, a small declivity to the south, yonder on my hill, gives me twenty hogsheads." "Quite a vineyard, hey?"

       Porthos sighed for the fifth time--D'Artagnan had counted his sighs. He became curious to solve the problem.

       "Well now," he said, "it seems, my dear friend, that something vexes you; you are ill, perhaps? That health, which----" "Excellent, my dear friend; better than ever. I could kill an ox with a blow of my fist."

       "Well, then, family affairs, perhaps?"

       "Family! I have, happily, only myself in the world to care for." "But what makes you sigh?"

       "My dear fellow," replied Porthos, "to be candid with you, I am not happy."

       "You are not happy, Porthos? You who have chateau, meadows, mountains, woods--you who have forty thousand francs a year--

       you--are--not--happy?"

       "My dear friend, all those things I have, but I am a hermit in the midst of superfluity." "Surrounded, I suppose, only by clodhoppers, with whom you could not associate." Porthos turned rather pale and drank off a large glass of wine.

       "No; but just think, there are paltry country squires who have all some title or another and pretend to go back as far as Charlemagne, or at least to Hugh Capet. When I first came here; being the last comer, it was for me to make the first advances. I made them, but you know, my dear friend, Madame du Vallon----"

       Porthos, in pronouncing these words, seemed to gulp down something.

       "Madame du Vallon was of doubtful gentility. She had, in her first marriage--I don't think, D'Artagnan, I am telling you anything new--married a lawyer; they thought that 'nauseous;' you can understand that's a word bad enough to make one kill thirty thousand men. I have killed two, which has made people hold their tongues, but has not made me their friend. So that I have no society; I live alone; I am sick of it--my mind preys on itself."

       D'Artagnan smiled. He now saw where the breastplate was weak, and prepared the blow. "But now," he said, "that you are a widower, your wife's connection cannot injure you."

       "Yes, but understand me; not being of a race of historic fame, like the De Courcys, who were content to be plain sirs, or the Rohans, who didn't wish to be dukes, all these people, who are all either vicomtes or comtes go before me at church in all the ceremonies, and I can say nothing to them. Ah! If I only were a----"

       "A baron, don't you mean?" cried D'Artagnan, finishing his friend's sentence. "Ah!" cried Porthos; "would I were but a baron!"

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       "Well, my friend, I am come to give you this very title which you wish for so much."

       Porthos gave a start that shook the room; two or three bottles fell and were broken. Mousqueton ran thither, hearing the noise.

       Porthos waved his hand to Mousqueton to pick up the bottles.

       "I am glad