LITMIR.BIZ

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counting a luster, which fell on my head and was broken into a thousand pieces—ha, ha, ha!”

      “Upon your head?” said D’Artagnan, holding his sides.

      “On top.”

      “But your head was broken, I suppose?”

      “No, since I tell you, on the contrary, my dear fellow, that it was the luster which was broken, like glass, which, in point of fact, it was.”

      “Ah! the luster was glass, you say.”

      “Venetian glass! a perfect curiosity, quite matchless, indeed, and weighed two hundred pounds.”

      “And it fell upon your head!”

      “Upon my head. Just imagine, a globe of crystal, gilded all over, the lower part beautifully encrusted, perfumes burning at the top, with jets from which flame issued when they were lighted.”

      “I quite understand, but they were not lighted at the time, I suppose?”

      “Happily not, or I should have been grilled prematurely.”

      “And you were only knocked down flat, instead?”

      “Not at all.”

      “How, ‘not at all?’ ”

      “Why, the luster fell on my skull. It appears that we have upon the top of our heads an exceedingly thick crust.”

      “Who told you that, Porthos?”

      “The doctor. A sort of dome which would bear Notre-Dame.”

      “Bah!”

      “Yes, it seems that our skulls are made in that manner.”

      “Speak for yourself, my dear fellow, it is your own skull that is made in that manner, and not the skulls of other people.”

      “Well, that may be so,” said Porthos, conceitedly, “so much, however, was that the case, in my instance, that no sooner did the luster fall upon the dome which we have at the top of our head, than there was a report like a cannon, the crystal was broken to pieces, and I fell, covered from head to foot.”

      “With blood, poor Porthos!”

      “Not at all; with perfumes, which smelt like rich creams; it was delicious, but the odor was too strong, and I felt quite giddy from it; perhaps you have experienced it sometimes yourself, D’Artagnan?”

      “Yes, in inhaling the scent of the lily of the valley; so that, my poor friend, you were knocked over by the shock and overpowered by the perfumes?”

      “Yes; but what is very remarkable, for the doctor told me he had never seen anything like it—”

      “You had a bump on your head I suppose?” interrupted D’Artagnan.

      “I had five.”

      “Why five?”

      “I will tell you; the luster had, at its lower extremity, five gilt ornaments; excessively sharp.”

      “Oh!”

      “Well, these five ornaments penetrated my hair, which, as you see, I wear very thick.”

      “Fortunately so.”

      “And they made a mark on my skin. But just notice the singularity of it, these things seem really only to happen to me! Instead of making indentations, they made bumps. The doctor could never succeed in explaining that to me satisfactorily.”

      “Well, then, I will explain it to you.”

      “You will do me a great service if you will,” said Porthos, winking his eyes, which, with him, was sign of the profoundest attention.

      “Since you have been employing your brain in studies of an exalted character, in important calculations, and so on, the head has gained a certain advantage, so that your head is now too full of science.”

      “Do you think so?”

      “I am sure of it. The result is, that, instead of allowing any foreign matter to penetrate the interior of the head, your bony box or skull, which is already too full, avails itself of the openings which are made in allowing this excess to escape.”

      “Ah!” said Porthos, to whom this explanation appeared clearer than that of the doctor.

      “The five protuberances, caused by the five ornaments of the luster, must certainly have been scientific globules, brought to the surface by the force of circumstances.”

      “In fact,” said Porthos, “the real truth is, that I felt far worse outside my head than inside. I will even confess, that when I put my hat upon my head, clapping it on my head with that graceful energy which we gentlemen of the sword possess, if my fist was not very gently applied, I experienced the most painful sensations.”

      “I quite believe you, Porthos.”

      “Therefore, my friend,” said the giant, “M. Fouquet decided, seeing how slightly built the house was, to give me another lodging, and so they brought me here.”

      “It is the private park, I think, is it not?”

      “Yes.”

      “Where the rendezvous are made; that park, indeed, which is so celebrated in some of those mysterious stories about the superintendent?”

      “I don’t know; I have had no rendezvous or heard mysterious stories myself, but they have authorized me to exercise my muscles, and I take advantage of the permission by rooting up some of the trees.”

      “What for?”

      “To keep my hand in, and also to take some birds’ nests; I find it more convenient than climbing.”

      “You are as pastoral as Tyrcis, my dear Porthos.”

      “Yes, I like the small eggs; I like them very much better than larger ones. You have no idea how delicate an omelette is, if made of four or five hundred eggs of linnets, chaffinches, starlings, blackbirds, and thrushes.”

      “But five hundred eggs is perfectly monstrous!”

      “A salad-bowl will hold them easily enough,” said Porthos.

      D’Artagnan looked at Porthos admiringly for full five minutes, as if he had seen him for the first time, while Porthos spread his chest out joyously and proudly. They remained in this state several minutes, Porthos smiling, and D’Artagnan looking at him. D’Artagnan was evidently trying to give the conversation a new turn. “Do you amuse yourself much here, Porthos?” he asked at last, very likely after he had found out what he was searching for.

      “Not always.”

      “I can imagine that; but when you get thoroughly bored, by and by, what do you intend to do?”

      “Oh! I shall not be here for any length of time. Aramis is waiting until the last bump on my head disappears, in order to present me to the king, who I am told cannot endure the sight of a bump.”

      “Aramis is still in Paris, then?”

      “No.”

      “Whereabouts is he, then?”

      “At Fontainebleau.”

      “Alone?”

      “With M. Fouquet.”

      “Very good. But do you happen to know one thing?”

      “No, tell it me, and then I shall know.”

      “Well, then, I think Aramis is forgetting you.”

      “Do you really think so?”

      “Yes; for at Fontainebleau yonder, you must know, they are laughing, dancing, banqueting, and drawing

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