f that? The king has caused a hundred mortal
heart-burnings among the courtiers by refusing invitations. And so, my
dear friend, you are really going to Vaux?"

"Indeed I am!"

"You will see a magnificent sight."

"Alas! I doubt it, though."

"Everything that is grand in France will be brought together there!"

"Ah!" cried Porthos, tearing out a lock of hair in his despair.

"Eh! good heavens, are you ill?" cried D'Artagnan.

"I am as firm as the Pont-Neuf! It isn't that."

"But what is it, then?"

"'Tis that I have no clothes!"

D'Artagnan stood petrified. "No clothes! Porthos, no clothes!" he cried,
"when I see at least fifty suits on the floor."

"Fifty, truly; but not one which fits me!"

"What? not one that fits you? But are you not measured, then, when you
give an order?"

"To be sure he is," answered Mouston; "but unfortunately _I_ have gotten
stouter!"

"What! _you_ stouter!"

"So much so that I am now bigger than the baron. Would you believe it,
monsieur?"

"_Parbleu!_ it seems to me that is quite evident."

"Do you see, stupid?" said Porthos, "that is quite evident!"

"Be still, my dear Porthos," resumed D'Artagnan, becoming slightly
impatient, "I don't understand why your clothes should not fit you,
because Mouston has grown stouter."

"I am going to explain it," said Porthos. "You remember having related
to me the story of the Roman general Antony, who had always seven wild
boars kept roasting, each cooked up to a different point; so that he
might be able to have his dinner at any time of the day he chose to ask
for it. Well, then, I resolved, as at any time I might be invited to
court to spend a week, I resolved to have always seven suits ready for
the occasion."

"Capitally reasoned, Porthos--only a man must have a fortune like yours
to gratify such whims. Without counting the time lost in being measured,
the fashions are always changing."

"That is exactly the point," said Porthos, "in regard to which I
flattered myself I had hit on a very ingenious device."

"Tell me what it is; for I don't doubt your genius."

"You remember what Mouston once was, then?"

"Yes; when he used to call himself Mousqueton."

"And you remember, too, the period when he began to grow fatter?"

"No, not exactly. I beg your pardon, my good Mouston."

"Oh! you are not in fault, monsieur," said Mouston, graciously. "You
were in Paris, and as for us, we were at Pierrefonds."

"Well, well, my dear