The Man in the Iron Mask
How Mouston Had Become Fatter without Giving Porthos Notice Thereof, and of the Troubles Which Consequently Befell that Worthy Gentleman.
Since the of Athos for Blois, Porthos and D’Artagnan were together. One was with for the king, the other had been making many of which he to to his estate, and by of which he to in his something of the luxury he had in all its in his majesty’s society. D’Artagnan, faithful, one an of service about Porthos, and being at not having anything of him for a fortnight, his steps his hotel, and upon him just as he was up. The had a pensive—nay, more than pensive—melancholy air. He was on his bed, only half-dressed, and with over the edge, a of garments, which with their fringes, lace, embroidery, and of ill-assorted hues, were all over the floor. Porthos, sad and as La Fontaine’s hare, did not D’Artagnan’s entrance, which was, moreover, screened at this moment by M. Mouston, personal corpulency, at any time to one man from another, was by a which the was up for his master’s inspection, by the sleeves, that he might the see it all over. D’Artagnan stopped at the and looked in at the Porthos and then, as the of the the to the of that excellent gentleman, D’Artagnan it time to put an end to these reflections, and by way of announcing himself.
“Ah!” Porthos, with joy; “ah! ah! Here is D’Artagnan. I shall then of an idea!”
At these Mouston, what was going on him, got out of the way, at the friend of his master, who thus himself from the material which had his D’Artagnan. Porthos his again in rising, and the room in two strides, himself to with his friend, he to his with a of that to with every day. “Ah!” he repeated, “you are always welcome, dear friend; but just now you are more welcome than ever.”
“But you to have the here!” D’Artagnan.
Porthos by a look of dejection. “Well, then, tell me all about it, Porthos, my friend, unless it is a secret.”
“In the place,” returned Porthos, “you know I have no from you. This, then, is what me.”
“Wait a minute, Porthos; let me of all this of and velvet!”
“Oh, mind,” said Porthos, contemptuously; “it is all trash.”
“Trash, Porthos! Cloth at twenty-five an ell! satin! velvet!”
“Then you think these are—”
“Splendid, Porthos, splendid! I’ll that you alone in France have so many; and you had any more made, and were to live to be a hundred years of age, which wouldn’t me in the very least, you still wear a new dress the day of your death, without being to see the nose of a single tailor from now till then.”
Porthos his head.
“Come, my friend,” said D’Artagnan, “this in you me. My dear Porthos, pray it out, then. And the sooner the better.”
“Yes, my friend, so I will: if, indeed, it is possible.”
“Perhaps you have news from Bracieux?”
“No: they have the wood, and it has a third more than the estimate.”
“Then there has been a falling-off in the of Pierrefonds?”
“No, my friend: they have been fished, and there is left to stock all the in the neighborhood.”
“Perhaps your at Vallon has been by an earthquake?”
“No, my friend; on the contrary, the ground was with a hundred from the chateau, and a up in a place of water.”
“What in the world is the matter, then?”
“The is, I have an for the at Vaux,” said Porthos, with a expression.
“Well! do you complain of that? The king has a hundred heart-burnings among the by invitations. And so, my dear friend, you are going to Vaux?”
“Indeed I am!”
“You will see a sight.”
“Alas! I it, though.”
“Everything that is in France will be together there!”
“Ah!” Porthos, out a lock of in his despair.
“Eh! good heavens, are you ill?” D’Artagnan.
“I am as as the Pont-Neuf! It isn’t that.”
“But what is it, then?”
“‘Tis that I have no clothes!”
D’Artagnan petrified. “No clothes! Porthos, no clothes!” he cried, “when I see at least fifty on the floor.”
“Fifty, truly; but not one which me!”
“What? not one that you? But are you not measured, then, when you give an order?”
“To be sure he is,” answered Mouston; “but I have stouter!”
“What! you stouter!”
“So much so that I am now than the baron. Would you it, monsieur?”
“Parbleu! it to me that is evident.”
“Do you see, stupid?” said Porthos, “that is evident!”
“Be still, my dear Porthos,” D’Artagnan, impatient, “I don’t why your should not fit you, Mouston has stouter.”
“I am going to it,” said Porthos. “You having related to me the of the Roman Antony, who had always seven wild roasting, each up to a different point; so that he might be able to have his dinner at any time of the day he to ask for it. Well, then, I resolved, as at any time I might be to to a week, I to have always seven for the occasion.”
“Capitally reasoned, Porthos—only a man must have a like yours to such whims. Without the time in being measured, the fashions are always changing.”
“That is the point,” said Porthos, “in to which I myself I had on a very device.”
“Tell me what it is; for I don’t your genius.”
“You what Mouston once was, then?”
“Yes; when he used to call himself Mousqueton.”
“And you remember, too, the period when he to fatter?”
“No, not exactly. I your pardon, my good Mouston.”
“Oh! you are not in fault, monsieur,” said Mouston, graciously. “You were in Paris, and as for us, we were at Pierrefonds.”
“Well, well, my dear Porthos; there was a time when Mouston to fat. Is that what you to say?”
“Yes, my friend; and I over the period.”
“Indeed, I you do,” D’Artagnan.
“You understand,” Porthos, “what a world of trouble it for me.”
“No, I don’t—by any means.”
“Look here, my friend. In the place, as you have said, to be is a of time, though it only once a fortnight. And then, one may be travelling; and then you wish to have seven always with you. In short, I have a of any one take my measure. Confound it! either one is a or not. To be and by a who you, by and line—‘tis degrading! Here, they you too hollow; there, too prominent. They your and weak points. See, now, when we the measurer’s hands, we are like those and different have been by a spy.”
“In truth, my dear Porthos, you ideas original.”
“Ah! you see when a man is an engineer—”
“And has Belle-Isle—‘tis natural, my friend.”
“Well, I had an idea, which would have proved a good one, but for Mouston’s carelessness.”
D’Artagnan at Mouston, who by a movement of his body, as if to say, “You will see I am at all to in all this.”
“I myself, then,” Porthos, “at Mouston fat; and I did all I could, by means of feeding, to make him stout—always in the that he would come to equal myself in girth, and then be in my stead.”
“Ah!” D’Artagnan. “I see—that you time and humiliation.”
“Consider my when, after a year and a half’s feeding—for I used to him up myself—the fellow—”
“Oh! I a good hand myself, monsieur,” said Mouston, humbly.
“That’s true. Consider my when, one morning, I Mouston was to in, as I once did myself, to through the little door that those of had in the of the late Madame du Vallon, in the of Pierrefonds. And, by the way, about that door, my friend, I should like to ask you, who know everything, why these of architects, who ought to have the into them, just to them, came to make through which nobody but thin people can pass?”
“Oh, those doors,” answered D’Artagnan, “were meant for gallants, and they have and figures.”
“Madame du Vallon had no gallant!” answered Porthos, majestically.
“Perfectly true, my friend,” D’Artagnan; “but the were making their calculations on a of the of your marrying again.”
“Ah! that is possible,” said Porthos. “And now I have an of how it is that are too narrow, let us return to the of Mouston’s fatness. But see how the two apply to each other. I have always noticed that people’s ideas parallel. And so, this phenomenon, D’Artagnan. I was talking to you of Mouston, who is fat, and it us on to Madame du Vallon—”
“Who was thin?”
“Hum! Is it not marvelous?”
“My dear friend, a of my acquaintance, M. Costar, has the same as you have, and he calls the by some Greek name which I forget.”
“What! my is not then original?” Porthos, astounded. “I I was the discoverer.”
“My friend, the was Aristotle’s days—that is to say, nearly two thousand years ago.”
“Well, well, ‘tis no less true,” said Porthos, at the idea of having jumped to a so closely in agreement with the of antiquity.
“Wonderfully—but we return to Mouston. It to me, we have left him under our very eyes.”
“Yes, monsieur,” said Mouston.
“Well,” said Porthos, “Mouston so well, that he all my hopes, by my standard; a of which I was well able to myself, by the rascal, one day, in a of mine, which he had into a coat—a waistcoat, the of which was a hundred pistoles.”
“‘Twas only to try it on, monsieur,” said Mouston.
“From that moment I to put Mouston in with my tailors, and to have him of myself.”
“A idea, Porthos; but Mouston is a and a than you.”
“Exactly! They him to the ground, and the end of the skirt came just my knee.”
“What a man you are, Porthos! Such a thing only to you.”
“Ah! yes; pay your compliments; you have to go upon. It was at that time—that is to say, nearly two years and a ago—that I set out for Belle-Isle, Mouston (so as always to have, in every event, a pattern of every fashion) to have a for himself every month.”
“And did Mouston neglect with your instructions? Ah! that was anything but right, Mouston.”
“No, monsieur, the contrary; the contrary!”
“No, he to have his made; but he to me that he had got stouter!”
“But it was not my fault, monsieur! your tailor told me.”
“And this to such an extent, monsieur,” Porthos, “that the in two years has eighteen in girth, and so my last dozen are all too large, from a to a and a half.”
“But the rest; those which were 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 from Siam; and as though I had been two years away from court.”
“I 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 air. “The truth is, that has always been very to me.”
“Do you to that I hadn’t that idea, or that I was by the expense? But it wants only two days to the fete; I the yesterday; Mouston post with my wardrobe, and only this my misfortune; and from now till the day after to-morrow, there isn’t a single tailor who will to make me a suit.”
“That is to say, one all over with gold, isn’t it?”
“I wish it so! undoubtedly, all over.”
“Oh, we shall manage it. You won’t for three days. The are for Wednesday, and this is only Sunday morning.”
“‘Tis true; but Aramis has me to be at Vaux twenty-four hours beforehand.”
“How, Aramis?”
“Yes, it was Aramis who me the invitation.”
“Ah! to be sure, I see. You are on the part of M. Fouquet?”
“By no means! by the king, dear friend. The the as large as life: ‘M. le Baron du Vallon is that the king has to place him on the list—‘”
“Very good; but you with M. Fouquet?”
“And when I think,” Porthos, on the floor, “when I think I shall have no clothes, I am to with rage! I should like to somebody or something!”
“Neither 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 them all this morning.”
“Even M. Percerin?”
“Who is M. Percerin?”
“Oh! only the king’s tailor!”
“Oh, ah, yes,” said Porthos, who to appear to know the king’s tailor, but now his name mentioned for the time; “to M. Percerin’s, by Jove! I was 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 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? he put up with it?”
“The king is a beau, my good friend, and so are you, too, you may say about it.”
Porthos triumphantly. “Let us go to the king’s tailor,” he said; “and since he the king, I think, by my faith, I may do than allow him to measure me!”
