Porthos's Will.At Pierrefonds everything was in mourning. The courts were deserted—the stables closed—the parterres neglected. In the basins, the fountains, formerly so jubilantly fresh and noisy, had stopped of themselves. Along the roads around the chateau came a few grave personages mounted on mules or country nags. These were rural neighbors, cures and bailiffs of adjacent estates. All these people entered the chateau silently, handed their horses to a melancholy–looking groom, and directed their steps, conducted by a huntsman in black, to the great dining–room, where Mousqueton received them at the door. Mousqueton had become so thin in two days that his clothes moved upon him like an ill–fitting scabbard in which the sword–blade dances at each motion. His face, composed of red and wh
