ur stately,
gilded weather-cocks. D'Artagnan no longer doubted that this was
Porthos's pleasant dwelling place.

The road led straight up to the chateau which, compared to its ancestor
on the hill, was exactly what a fop of the coterie of the Duc d'Enghein
would have been beside a knight in steel armor in the time of Charles
VII. D'Artagnan spurred his horse on and pursued his road, followed by
Planchet at the same pace.

In ten minutes D'Artagnan reached the end of an alley regularly planted
with fine poplars and terminating in an iron gate, the points and
crossed bars of which were gilt. In the midst of this avenue was a
nobleman, dressed in green and with as much gilding about him as the
iron gate, riding on a tall horse. On his right hand and his left were
two footmen, with the seams of their dresses laced. A considerable
number of clowns were assembled and rendered homage to their lord.

"Ah!" said D'Artagnan to himself, "can this be the Seigneur du Vallon de
Bracieux de Pierrefonds? Well-a-day! how he has shrunk since he gave up
the name of Porthos!"

"This cannot be Monsieur Porthos," observed Planchet replying, as it
were, to his master's thoughts. "Monsieur Porthos was six feet high;
this man is scarcely five."

"Nevertheless," said D'Artagnan, "the people are bowing very low to this
person."

As he spoke, he rode toward the tall horse--to the man of importance and
his valets. As he approached he seemed to recognize the features of this
individual.

"Jesu!" cried Planchet, "can it be?"

At this exclamation the man on horseback turned slowly and with a lofty
air, and the two travelers could see, displayed in all their
brilliancy, the large eyes, the vermilion visage, and the eloquent smile
of--Mousqueton.

It was indeed Mousqueton--Mousqueton, as fat as a pig, rolling about
with rude health, puffed out with good living, who, recognizing
D'Artagnan and acting very differently from the hypocrite Bazin, slipped
off his horse and approached the officer with his hat off, so that the
homage of the assembled crowd was turned toward this new sun, which
eclipsed the former luminary.

"Monsieur d'Artagnan! Monsieur d'Artagnan!" cried Mousqueton, his fat
cheeks swelling out and his whole frame perspiring with joy; "Monsieur
d'Artagnan! oh! what joy for my lord and master, Du Vallon de Bracieux
de Pierrefonds!"

"Thou good Mousqueton! where is thy master?"

"You stand upon his property!"

"But how handsom