in height.

D'Artagnan rode slowly past its walls, measured its towers with his eye
and descended into the valley. From afar he looked down upon the chateau
of Porthos, situated on the shores of a small lake, and contiguous to a
magnificent forest. It was the same place we have already had the honor
of describing to our readers; we shall therefore satisfy ourselves with
naming it. The first thing D'Artagnan perceived after the fine trees,
the May sun gilding the sides of the green hills, the long rows of
feather-topped trees which stretched out towards Compiegne, was a large
rolling box, pushed forward by two servants and dragged by two others.
In this box there was an enormous green-and-gold thing, which went along
the smiling glades of the park, thus dragged and pushed. This thing,
at a distance, could not be distinguished, and signified absolutely
nothing; nearer, it was a hogshead muffled in gold-bound green cloth;
when close, it was a man, or rather a _poussa_, the inferior extremity
of whom, spreading over the interior of the box, entirely filled it;
when still closer, the man was Mousqueton--Mousqueton, with gray hair
and a face as red as Punchinello's.

"_Pardieu!_" cried D'Artagnan; "why, that's my dear Monsieur
Mousqueton!"

"Ah!" cried the fat man--"ah! what happiness! what joy! There's M.
d'Artagnan. Stop, you rascals!" These last words were addressed to
the lackeys who pushed and dragged him. The box stopped, and the four
lackeys, with a precision quite military, took off their laced hats and
ranged themselves behind it.

"Oh, Monsieur d'Artagnan!" said Mousqueton, "why can I not embrace your
knees? But I have become impotent, as you see."

"_Dame!_ my dear Mousqueton, it is age."

"No, monsieur, it is not age; it is infirmities--troubles."

"Troubles! you, Mousqueton?" said D'Artagnan, making the tour of the
box; "are you out of your mind, my dear friend? Thank God! you are as
hearty as a three-hundred-year-old oak."

"Ah! but my legs, monsieur, my legs!" groaned the faithful servant.

"What's the matter with your legs?"

"Oh, they will no longer bear me!"

"Ah, the ungrateful things! And yet you feed them well, Mousqueton,
apparently."

"Alas, yes! They can reproach me with nothing in that respect," said
Mousqueton, with a sigh; "I have always done what I could for my poor
body; I am not selfish." And Mousqueton sighed afresh.

"I wonder whether Mousqueton wants to be a baron, too, as he s