OTHING OF HIS STRENGTH.

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
surintendant'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 very 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 which he had
already made, that the soldier sent to M. de Valon 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.
de Valon 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 limits of the
earth. 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