ilantly fresh and noisy, had stopped of themselves. Along
the roads around the chateau came a few grave personages mounted on
mules or country nags. These were rural neighbors, cures and bailiffs of
adjacent estates. All these people entered the chateau silently, handed
their horses to a melancholy-looking groom, and directed their steps,
conducted by a huntsman in black, to the great dining-room, where
Mousqueton received them at the door. Mousqueton had become so thin in
two days that his clothes moved upon him like an ill-fitting scabbard in
which the sword-blade dances at each motion. His face, composed of red
and white, like that of the Madonna of Vandyke, was furrowed by two
silver rivulets which had dug their beds in his cheeks, as full formerly
as they had become flabby since his grief began. At each fresh arrival,
Mousqueton found fresh tears, and it was pitiful to see him press
his throat with his fat hand to keep from bursting into sobs and
lamentations. All these visits were for the purpose of hearing the
reading of Porthos's will, announced for that day, and at which all the
covetous friends of the dead man were anxious to be present, as he had
left no relations behind him.

The visitors took their places as they arrived, and the great room had
just been closed when the clock struck twelve, the hour fixed for the
reading of the important document. Porthos's procureur--and that
was naturally the successor of Master Coquenard--commenced by slowly
unfolding the vast parchment upon which the powerful hand of Porthos had
traced his sovereign will. The seal broken--the spectacles put on--the
preliminary cough having sounded--every one pricked up his ears.
Mousqueton had squatted himself in a corner, the better to weep and the
better to hear. All at once the folding-doors of the great room, which
had been shut, were thrown open as if by magic, and a warlike figure
appeared upon the threshold, resplendent in the full light of the sun.
This was D'Artagnan, who had come alone to the gate, and finding nobody
to hold his stirrup, had tied his horse to the knocker and announced
himself. The splendor of daylight invading the room, the murmur of all
present, and, more than all, the instinct of the faithful dog, drew
Mousqueton from his reverie; he raised his head, recognized the old
friend of his master, and, screaming with grief, he embraced his knees,
watering the floor with his tears. D'Artagnan raised the poor intendan