“But you seem in the dumps here?” exclaimed d’Artagnan.
Porthos replied by a look expressive of dejection.
“Well, then, tell me all about it, Porthos, my friend, unless it is a secret.”
“In the first place,” returned Porthos, “you know I have no secrets from you. This, then, is what saddens me.”
“Wait a minute, Porthos; let me first get rid of all this litter of satin and velvet.”
“Oh, never mind!” said Porthos, contemptuously; “it is all trash.”
“Trash, Porthos! Cloth at twenty livres an ell, gorgeous satin, regal velvet!”
“Then you think these clothes are-”
“Splendid, Porthos, splendid. I’ll wager that you alone in France have so many; and suppose you never had any more made, and were to live a hundred years, which wouldn’t astonish me, you could still wear a new dress the day of your death without being obliged to see the nose of a single tailor from now till then.”
Porthos shook his head.
“Come, my friend,” said d’Artagnan, “this unnatural melancholy in you frightens me. My dear Porthos, pray get out of it- the sooner the better.”
“Yes, my friend, so I will; if indeed it is possible.”
“Perhaps you have received bad news from Bracieux?”
“No; they have felled the wood, and it has yielded a third more than the estimate.”
“Then there has been a falling off in the pools of Pierrefonds?”
“No, my friend; they have been fished, and there is enough left to stock all the pools in the neighborhood.”
“Perhaps your estate at Vallon has been destroyed by an earthquake?”
“No, my friend; on the contrary, the ground was struck by lightning a hundred paces from the chateau, and a fountain sprung up in a place entirely destitute of water.”
“Well, then, what is the matter?”
“The fact is, I have received an invitation for the fete at Vaux,” said Porthos, with a lugubrious expression.
“Well, do you complain of that? The King has caused a hundred mortal heart-burnings among the courtiers by refusing invitations. And so, my dear friend, you are of the party for Vaux? Bless my soul!”
“Indeed I am!”
“You will see a magnificent sight.”
“Alas! I doubt it, though.”
“Everything that is grand in France will be brought together there!”
“Ah!” cried Porthos, tearing out a lock of his hair in despair.
“Eh! Good Heavens! are you ill?” cried d’Artagnan.
“I am as strong as the Pont-Neuf! It isn’t that.”
“But what is it, then?”
“It is that I have no clothes!”
D’Artagnan stood petrified. “No clothes, Porthos! no clothes,” he cried, “when I see more than fifty suits on the floor!”
“Fifty, yes; but not one that fits me!”
“What! not one that fits you? But are you not measured, then, when you give an order?”
“To be sure, he is,” answered Mouston; “but unfortunately I have grown stouter.”
“What! you stouter?”
“So much so that I am now bigger than the baron. Would you believe it, Monsieur?”
“Parbleu! it seems to me that is quite evident.”
“Do you see, stupid?” said Porthos; “that is quite evident!”
“Be still, my dear Porthos!” resumed d’Artagnan, becoming slightly impatient. “I don’t understand why your clothes should not fit you because Mouston has grown stouter.”
“I am going to explain it,” said Porthos. “You remember having related to me the story of the Roman general Antony, who had always seven wild boars, kept roasting, cooked to different degrees, so that he might be able to have his dinner at any time of the day he chose to ask for it? Well, then, I resolved, as at any time I might be invited to court to spend a week,- I resolved to have always seven suits ready for the occasion.”
“Capitally reasoned, Porthos! Only a man must have a fortune like yours to gratify such whims. Without counting the time lost in being measured, the fashions are always changing.”
“That is exactly the point,” said Porthos, “in regard to which I flattered myself I had hit on a very ingenious device.”
“Tell me what it is; for I don’t doubt your genius.”
“You remember that Mouston once was thin?”
“Yes; when he was called Mousqueton.”
“And you remember, too, the period when he began to grow fatter?”