Chapter 3 - Page 2

attitudes. These were vestals hidden beneath the long Greek
peplum, with its thick, sinuous folds; agile nymphs, covered with their
marble veils, and guarding the palace with their fugitive 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 the
gardens and outbuildings, 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 somber summits towards the
sky. Around these cypresses were entwined climbing roses, whose
flowering rings were fastened to every fork of the branches, and spread
over the lower boughs and the various statues, showers of flowers of the
rarest 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 tremendously true
it is, that even the very highest orders of minds are not quite exempt
from the influence of surroundings. D'Artagnan found the door, and on,
or rather in 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 du 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's house, at which you are not a little
surprised, I suppose?"

"Not at all; why should you not be one of M. Fouquet's friends? M.
Fouquet has a very large number, particularly among clever men."

Porthos had the modesty not to take the compliment to himself.
"Besides," he added, "you saw me at Belle-Isle."

"A greater reason for my believing you to be one of M. Fouquet's friends."

"The fact is, I am acquainted with him," said Porthos, with a