of a couple of fists and a backbone, which are
not to be matched throughout the whole realm of France. Porthos is a man
of the very greatest consequence compared to you, and ... well, I need
say no more, for I know you are an intelligent fellow."

"No, no, monsieur, explain what you mean."

"Look at your orchard, how stripped it is, how empty your larder, your
bedstead broken, your cellar almost exhausted, look too ... at Madame
Truechen--"

"Oh! my good gracious!" said Planchet.

"Madame Truechen is an excellent person," continued D'Artagnan, "but keep
her for yourself, do you understand?" and he slapped him on the
shoulder.

Planchet at this moment perceived Porthos and Truechen sitting close
together in an arbor: Truechen, with a grace and manner peculiarly
Flemish, was making a pair of earrings for Porthos out of a double
cherry, while Porthos was laughing as amorously as Samson did with
Delilah. Planchet pressed D'Artagnan's hand, and ran toward the arbor.
We must do Porthos the justice to say that he did not move as they
approached, and very likely, he did not think he was doing any harm. Nor
indeed did Truechen move either, which rather put Planchet out; but he,
too, had been so accustomed to see fashionable people in his shop, that
he found no difficulty in putting a good countenance on what was
disagreeable to him. Planchet seized Porthos by the arm, and proposed to
go and look at the horses, but Porthos pretended he was tired. Planchet
then suggested that the Baron de Valon should taste some noveau of his
own manufacture, which was not to be equaled anywhere; an offer which
the baron immediately accepted; and, in this way, Planchet managed to
engage his enemy's attention during the whole of the day, by dint of
sacrificing his cellar, in preference to his _amour propre_. Two hours
afterward D'Artagnan returned.

"Everything is arranged," he said: "I saw his majesty at the very moment
he was setting off for the chase: the king expects us this evening."

"The king expects me!" cried Porthos, drawing himself up. It is a sad
thing to have to confess, but a man's heart is like a restless billow;
for, from that very moment, Porthos ceased to look at Madame Truechen in
that touching manner which had so softened her heart. Planchet
encouraged these ambitious leanings in the best way he could. He talked
over, or rather gave exaggerated accounts of all the splendors of the
last reign, its battles, sieges and gra