h a maxim somewhere which I have remembered, that the
thought of death is a thought that will do us all good."

"I am far from saying the contrary," said Porthos.

"But," objected D'Artagnan, "the thought of green fields, flowers,
rivers, blue horizons, extensive and boundless plains, is no less likely
to do us good."

"If I had any, I should be far from rejecting them," said Planchet; "but
possessing only this little cemetery, full of flowers, so moss-grown,
shady and quiet, I am contented with it, and I think of those who live
in town, in the Rue des Lombards, for instance, and who have to listen
to the rumbling of a couple of thousand vehicles every day, and to the
trampling of a hundred and fifty thousand foot-passengers."

"But living," said Porthos; "living, remember that."

"That is exactly the reason," said Planchet timidly, "why I feel it does
me good to see a few dead."

"Upon my word," said D'Artagnan, "that fellow Planchet was born to be a
poet as well as a grocer."

"Monsieur," said Planchet, "I am one of those good-humored sort of men
whom Heaven created for the purpose of living a certain space of time,
and of considering all things good which they meet with during their
stay on earth."

D'Artagnan sat down close to the window, and as there seemed to be
something substantial in Planchet's philosophy, he mused over it.

"Ah, ah!" exclaimed Porthos, "if I am not mistaken, we are going to have
a representation now, for I think I heard something like chanting."

"Yes," said D'Artagnan, "I hear singing too."

"Oh, it is only a burial of a very poor description," said Planchet,
disdainfully; "the officiating priest, the beadle, and only one
chorister boy, nothing more. You observe, messieurs, that the defunct
lady or gentleman could not have been of very high rank."

"No; no one seems to be following the coffin."

"Yes," said Porthos; "I see a man."

"You are right; a man wrapped up in a cloak," said D'Artagnan.

"It's not worth looking at," said Planchet.

"I find it interesting," said D'Artagnan, leaning on the window.

"Come, come, you are beginning to take a fancy to the place already,"
said Planchet, delightedly; "it is exactly my own case. I was so
melancholy at first that I could do nothing but make the sign of the
cross all day, and the chants were like nails being driven into my head;
but now, the chants lull me to sleep, and no bird I have ever seen or
heard can sing better than th