u find me still
in affliction on that account. That was the reason why I left my Chateau
du Vallon near Corbeil, and came to my estate, Bracieux. Poor Madame
du Vallon! her temper was uncertain, but she came at last to accustom
herself to my little ways and understand my little wishes."

"So you are free now, and rich?"

"Alas!" groaned Porthos, "I am a widower and have forty thousand francs
a year. Let us go to breakfast."

"I shall be happy to do so; the morning air has made me hungry."

"Yes," said Porthos; "my air is excellent."

They went into the chateau; there was nothing but gilding, high and low;
the cornices were gilt, the mouldings were gilt, the legs and arms of
the chairs were gilt. A table, ready set out, awaited them.

"You see," said Porthos, "this is my usual style."

"Devil take me!" answered D'Artagnan, "I wish you joy of it. The king
has nothing like it."

"No," answered Porthos, "I hear it said that he is very badly fed by the
cardinal, Monsieur de Mazarin. Taste this cutlet, my dear D'Artagnan;
'tis off one of my sheep."

"You have very tender mutton and I wish you joy of it." said D'Artagnan.

"Yes, the sheep are fed in my meadows, which are excellent pasture."

"Give me another cutlet."

"No, try this hare, which I had killed yesterday in one of my warrens."

"Zounds! what a flavor!" cried D'Artagnan; "ah! they are fed on thyme
only, your hares."

"And how do you like my wine?" asked Porthos; "it is pleasant, isn't
it?"

"Capital!"

"It is nothing, however, but a wine of the country."

"Really?"

"Yes, a small declivity to the south, yonder on my hill, gives me twenty
hogsheads."

"Quite a vineyard, hey?"

Porthos sighed for the fifth time--D'Artagnan had counted his sighs. He
became curious to solve the problem.

"Well now," he said, "it seems, my dear friend, that something vexes
you; you are ill, perhaps? That health, which----"

"Excellent, my dear friend; better than ever. I could kill an ox with a
blow of my fist."

"Well, then, family affairs, perhaps?"

"Family! I have, happily, only myself in the world to care for."

"But what makes you sigh?"

"My dear fellow," replied Porthos, "to be candid with you, I am not
happy."

"You are not happy, Porthos? You who have chateau, meadows, mountains,
woods--you who have forty thousand francs a year--you--are--not--happy?"

"My dear friend, all those things I have, but I am a hermit in the midst
of superfluity."