Chapter 3

Chapter III:
In Which the Reader will be Delighted to Find that Porthos Has Lost
Nothing of His Muscularity.

D'Artagnan had, according to his usual style, calculated that every hour
is worth sixty minutes, and every minute worth sixty seconds. Thanks to
this perfectly exact calculation of minutes and seconds, he reached the
superintendent's door at the very moment the soldier was leaving it with
his belt empty. D'Artagnan presented himself at the door, which a porter
with a profusely embroidered livery held half opened for him. D'Artagnan
would very much have liked to enter without giving his name, but this was
impossible, and so he gave it. Notwithstanding this concession, which
ought to have removed every difficulty in the way, at least D'Artagnan
thought so, the _concierge_ hesitated; however, at the second repetition
of the title, captain of the king's guards, the _concierge_, without
quite leaving the passage clear for him, ceased to bar it completely.
D'Artagnan understood that orders of the most positive character had
been given. He decided, therefore, to tell a falsehood, - a
circumstance, moreover, which did not seriously affect his peace of mind,
when he saw that beyond the falsehood the safety of the state itself, or
even purely and simply his own individual personal interest, might be at
stake. He moreover added to the declarations he had already made, that
the soldier sent to M. du Vallon was his own messenger, and that the only
object that letter had in view was to announce his intended arrival.
From that moment, no one opposed D'Artagnan's entrance any further, and
he entered accordingly. A valet wished to accompany him, but he answered
that it was useless to take that trouble on his account, inasmuch as he
knew perfectly well where M. du Vallon was. There was nothing, of
course, to say to a man so thoroughly and completely informed on all
points, and D'Artagnan was permitted, therefore, to do as he liked. The
terraces, the magnificent apartments, the gardens, were all reviewed and
narrowly inspected by the musketeer. He walked for a quarter of an hour
in this more than royal residence, which included as many wonders as
articles of furniture, and as many servants as there were columns and
doors. "Decidedly," he said to himself, "this mansion has no other
limits than the pillars of the habitable world. Is it probable Porthos
has taken it into his head to go back to Pierrefonds without even leaving
M. Fouquet's house?" He finally reached a remote part of the chateau
inclosed by a stone wall, which 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