TER 18. In which D'Artagnan seeks Porthos, and only finds Mousqueton

When D'Artagnan had perfectly convinced himself that the absence of
the Vicar-General d'Herblay was real, and that his friend was not to be
found at Melun or in its vicinity, he left Bazin without regret, cast
an ill-natured glance at the magnificent Chateau de Vaux which was
beginning to shine with that splendor which brought on its ruin, and,
compressing his lips like a man full of mistrust and suspicion, he put
spurs to his pied horse, saying, "Well, well! I have still Pierrefonds
left, and there I shall find the best man and the best filled coffer.
And that is all I want, for I have an idea of my own."

We will spare our readers the prosaic incidents of D'Artagnan's journey,
which terminated on the morning of the third day within sight of
Pierrefonds. D'Artagnan came by the way of Nanteuil-le-Hardouin and
Crepy. At a distance he perceived the Castle of Louis of Orleans, which,
having become part of the crown domain, was kept by an old concierge.
This was one of those marvelous manors of the middle ages, with walls
twenty feet in thickness, and a hundred in height.

D'Artagnan rode slowly past its walls, measured its towers with his eye
and descended into the valley. From afar he looked down upon the chateau
of Porthos, situated on the shores of a small lake, and contiguous to a
magnificent forest. It was the same place we have already had the honor
of describing to our readers; we shall therefore satisfy ourselves with
naming it. The first thing D'Artagnan perceived after the fine trees,
the May sun gilding the sides of the green hills, the long rows of
feather-topped trees which stretched out towards Compiegne, was a large
rolling box, pushed forward by two servants and dragged by two others.
In this box there was an enormous green-and-gold thing, which went along
the smiling glades of the park, thus dragged and pushed. This thing,
at a distance, could not be distinguished, and signified absolutely
nothing; nearer, it was a hogshead muffled in gold-bound green cloth;
when close, it was a man, or rather a poussa, the interior extremity of
whom, spreading over the interior of the box, entirely filled it, when
still closer, the man was Mousqueton--Mousqueton, with gray hair and a
face as red as Punchinello's.

"Pardieu!" cried D'Artagnan; "why, that's my dear Monsieur Mousqueton!"

"Ah!" cried the fat man--"ah! what happiness! what joy! There