ven suits, with the assurance that he will wear them
till they are worn out, for the love of, and in remembrance of, his
master. Moreover, I bequeath to M. le Vicomte de Bragelonne my old
servant and faithful friend Mousqueton, already named, providing that
the said vicomte shall so act that Mousqueton shall declare when dying
he has never ceased to be happy."

On hearing these words, Mousqueton bowed, pale and trembling; his large
shoulders shook convulsively; his countenance, impressed by a frightful
grief, appeared from between his icy hands, and the spectators saw him
stagger, and hesitate, as if, though wishing to leave the hall, he did
not know the way.

"Mousqueton, my good friend," said D'Artagnan, "go and make your
preparations. I will take you with me to Athos' house, whither I shall
go on leaving Pierrefonds."

Mousqueton made no reply. He scarcely breathed, as if everything in that
hall would from that time be foreign. He opened the door, and
disappeared slowly. The procureur finished his reading, after which the
greater part of those who had come to hear the last will of Porthos
dispersed by degrees, many disappointed, but all penetrated with
respect. As to D'Artagnan, left alone, after having received the formal
compliments of the procureur, he was lost in admiration of the wisdom of
the testator, who had so judiciously bestowed his wealth upon the most
necessitous and the most worthy, with a delicacy that none among the
most refined courtiers and the most noble hearts could have displayed
more becomingly. When Porthos enjoined Raoul de Bragelonne to give to
D'Artagnan all he would ask, he knew well, did that worthy Porthos, that
D'Artagnan would ask or take nothing; and in case he did demand
anything, none but himself could say what. Porthos left a pension to
Aramis, who, if he should be inclined to ask too much, was checked by
the example of D'Artagnan; and that word _exile_, thrown out by the
testator, without apparent intention, was it not the most mild, the most
exquisite criticism upon that conduct of Aramis which had brought about
the death of Porthos. But there was no mention of Athos in the testament
of the dead. Could the latter for a moment suppose that the son would
not offer the best part to the father? The rough mind of Porthos had
judged all these causes, seized all these shades, better than the law,
better than custom, better than taste.

"Porthos was a heart," said D'Artagnan to himsel