was covered
with a profusion of thick plants, luxuriant in blossoms as large and
solid as fruit. At equal distances on the top of this wall were placed
various statues in timid or mysterious attitudes. These were vestals
hidden beneath the long Greek peplum, with its thick, heavy folds: agile
watchers, covered with their marble veils and guarding the palace with
their furtive glances. A statue of Hermes, with his finger on his lips;
one of Iris, with extended wings; another of Night, sprinkled all over
with poppies, dominated in the gardens and the outbuilding's, which
could be seen through the trees. All these statues threw in white relief
their profiles upon the dark ground of the tall cypresses, which darted
their black summits toward the sky. Around these cypresses were entwined
climbing roses, whose flowering rings were fastened to every fork of
every branch, and spread over the lower branches and upon the various
statues showers of flowers of the richest fragrance. These enchantments
seemed to the musketeer the result of the greatest efforts of the human
mind. He felt in a dreamy, almost poetical, frame of mind. The idea that
Porthos was living in so perfect an Eden gave him a higher idea of
Porthos, showing how true it is, that even the very highest orders of
minds are not quite exempt from the influence of surrounding
circumstances. D'Artagnan found the door, and at the door a kind of
spring which he detected; having touched it, the door flew open.
D'Artagnan entered, closed the door behind him, and advanced into a
pavilion built in a circular form, in which no other sound could be
heard but cascades and the songs of birds. At the door of the pavilion
he met a lackey.

"It is here, I believe," said D'Artagnan, without hesitation, "that M.
le Baron de Vallon is staying?"

"Yes, monsieur," answered the lackey.

"Have the goodness to tell him that M. le Chevalier d'Artagnan, captain
of the king's musketeers, is waiting to see him."

D'Artagnan was introduced into the salon, and had not long to remain in
expectation; a well-remembered step shook the floor of the adjoining
room; a door opened, or rather flew open, and Porthos appeared, and
threw himself into his friend's arms with a sort of embarrassment which
did not ill become him. "You here?" he exclaimed.

"And you?" replied D'Artagnan. "Ah, you sly fellow!"

"Yes," said Porthos, with a somewhat embarrassed smile; "yes, you see I
am staying in M. Fouquet'