The center of the most animated group was a Musketeer of great
height and haughty countenance, dressed in a costume so peculiar
as to attract general attention. He did not wear the uniform
cloak--which was not obligatory at that epoch of less liberty but
more independence--but a cerulean-blue doublet, a little faded and
worn, and over this a magnificent baldric, worked in gold, which
shone like water ripples in the sun. A long cloak of crimson
velvet fell in graceful folds from his shoulders, disclosing in
front the splendid baldric, from which was suspended a gigantic
rapier. This Musketeer had just come off guard, complained of
having a cold, and coughed from time to time affectedly. It was
for this reason, as he said to those around him, that he had put
on his cloak; and while he spoke with a lofty air and twisted his
mustache disdainfully, all admired his embroidered baldric, and
d'Artagnan more than anyone.


"What would you have?" said the Musketeer. "This fashion is
coming in. It is a folly, I admit, but still it is the fashion.
Besides, one must lay out one's inheritance somehow."

"Ah, Porthos!" cried one of his companions, "don't try to make us
believe you obtained that baldric by paternal generosity. It was
given to you by that veiled lady I met you with the other Sunday,
near the gate St. Honor."

"No, upon honor and by the faith of a gentleman, I bought it with
the contents of my own purse," answered he whom they designated
by the name Porthos.