LITMIR.BIZ

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glanced at Mouston, who replied by a slight movement of his body, as if to say, “You will see whether I am at all to blame in all this.”

      “I congratulated myself, then,” resumed Porthos, “at seeing Mouston get fat; and I did all I could, by means of substantial feeding, to make him stout – always in the hope that he would come to equal myself in girth, and could then be measured in my stead.”

      “Ah!” cried D’Artagnan. “I see – that spared you both time and humiliation.”

      “Consider my joy when, after a year and a half’s judicious feeding – for I used to feed him up myself – the fellow – ”

      “Oh! I lent a good hand myself, monsieur,” said Mouston, humbly.

      “That’s true. Consider my joy when, one morning, I perceived Mouston was obliged to squeeze in, as I once did myself, to get through the little secret door that those fools of architects had made in the chamber of the late Madame du Vallon, in the chateau of Pierrefonds. And, by the way, about that door, my friend, I should like to ask you, who know everything, why these wretches of architects, who ought to have the compasses run into them, just to remind them, came to make doorways through which nobody but thin people can pass?”

      “Oh, those doors,” answered D’Artagnan, “were meant for gallants, and they have generally slight and slender figures.”

      “Madame du Vallon had no gallant!” answered Porthos, majestically.

      “Perfectly true, my friend,” resumed D’Artagnan; “but the architects were probably making their calculations on a basis of the probability of your marrying again.”

      “Ah! that is possible,” said Porthos. “And now I have received an explanation of how it is that doorways are made too narrow, let us return to the subject of Mouston’s fatness. But see how the two things apply to each other. I have always noticed that people’s ideas run parallel. And so, observe this phenomenon, D’Artagnan. I was talking to you of Mouston, who is fat, and it led us on to Madame du Vallon – ”

      “Who was thin?”

      “Hum! Is it not marvelous?”

      “My dear friend, a savant of my acquaintance, M. Costar, has made the same observation as you have, and he calls the process by some Greek name which I forget.”

      “What! my remark is not then original?” cried Porthos, astounded. “I thought I was the discoverer.”

      “My friend, the fact was known before Aristotle’s days – that is to say, nearly two thousand years ago.”

      “Well, well, ‘tis no less true,” said Porthos, delighted at the idea of having jumped to a conclusion so closely in agreement with the greatest sages of antiquity.

      “Wonderfully – but suppose we return to Mouston. It seems to me, we have left him fattening under our very eyes.”

      “Yes, monsieur,” said Mouston.

      “Well,” said Porthos, “Mouston fattened so well, that he gratified all my hopes, by reaching my standard; a fact of which I was well able to convince myself, by seeing the rascal, one day, in a waistcoat of mine, which he had turned into a coat – a waistcoat, the mere embroidery of which was worth a hundred pistoles.”

      “‘Twas only to try it on, monsieur,” said Mouston.

      “From that moment I determined to put Mouston in communication with my tailors, and to have him measured instead of myself.”

      “A capital idea, Porthos; but Mouston is a foot and a half shorter than you.”

      “Exactly! They measured him down to the ground, and the end of the skirt came just below my knee.”

      “What a marvelous man you are, Porthos! Such a thing could happen only to you.”

      “Ah! yes; pay your compliments; you have ample grounds to go upon. It was exactly at that time – that is to say, nearly two years and a half ago – that I set out for Belle-Isle, instructing Mouston (so as always to have, in every event, a pattern of every fashion) to have a coat made for himself every month.”

      “And did Mouston neglect complying with your instructions? Ah! that was anything but right, Mouston.”

      “No, monsieur, quite the contrary; quite the contrary!”

      “No, he never forgot to have his coats made; but he forgot to inform me that he had got stouter!”

      “But it was not my fault, monsieur! your tailor never told me.”

      “And this to such an extent, monsieur,” continued Porthos, “that the fellow in two years has gained eighteen inches in girth, and so my last dozen coats are all too large, from a foot to a foot and a half.”

      “But the rest; those which were made when you were of the same size?”

      “They are no longer the fashion, my dear friend. Were I to put them on, I should look like a fresh arrival from Siam; and as though I had been two years away from court.”

      “I understand your difficulty. You have how many new suits? nine? thirty-six? and yet not one to wear. Well, you must have a thirty-seventh made, and give the thirty-six to Mouston.”

      “Ah! monsieur!” said Mouston, with a gratified air. “The truth is, that monsieur has always been very generous to me.”

      “Do you mean to insinuate that I hadn’t that idea, or that I was deterred by the expense? But it wants only two days to the fete; I received the invitation yesterday; made Mouston post hither with my wardrobe, and only this morning discovered my misfortune; and from now till the day after to-morrow, there isn’t a single fashionable tailor who will undertake to make me a suit.”

      “That is to say, one covered all over with gold, isn’t it?”

      “I wish it so! undoubtedly, all over.”

      “Oh, we shall manage it. You won’t leave for three days. The invitations are for Wednesday, and this is only Sunday morning.”

      “‘Tis true; but Aramis has strongly advised me to be at Vaux twenty-four hours beforehand.”

      “How, Aramis?”

      “Yes, it was Aramis who brought me the invitation.”

      “Ah! to be sure, I see. You are invited on the part of M. Fouquet?”

      “By no means! by the king, dear friend. The letter bears the following as large as life: ‘M. le Baron du Vallon is informed that the king has condescended to place him on the invitation list – ‘”

      “Very good; but you leave with M. Fouquet?”

      “And when I think,” cried Porthos, stamping on the floor, “when I think I shall have no clothes, I am ready to burst with rage! I should like to strangle somebody or smash something!”

      “Neither strangle anybody nor smash anything, Porthos; I will manage it all; put on one of your thirty-six suits, and come with me to a tailor.”

      “Pooh! my agent has seen them all this morning.”

      “Even M. Percerin?”

      “Who is M. Percerin?”

      “Oh! only the king’s tailor!”

      “Oh, ah, yes,” said Porthos, who wished to appear to know the king’s tailor, but now heard his name mentioned for the first time; “to M. Percerin’s, by Jove! I was afraid he would be too busy.”

      “Doubtless he will be; but be at ease, Porthos; he will do for me what he wouldn’t do for another. Only you must allow yourself to be measured!”

      “Ah!” said Porthos, with a sigh, “‘tis vexatious, but what would you have me do?”

      “Do? As others do; as the king does.”

      “What! do they measure the king, too? does he put up with it?”

      “The king is a beau, my good friend, and so are you, too, whatever

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