nothing from Mousqueton, - the faithful servant seemed to shed tears at
will, but that was all.

D'Artagnan, after a night passed in an excellent bed, reflected much upon
the meaning of Aramis's letter; puzzled himself as to the relation of the
Equinox with the affairs of Porthos; and being unable to make anything
out unless it concerned some amour of the bishop's, for which it was
necessary that the days and nights should be equal, D'Artagnan left
Pierrefonds as he had left Melun, as he had left the chateau of the Comte
de la Fere. It was not, however, without a melancholy, which might in
good sooth pass for one of the most dismal of D'Artagnan's moods. His
head cast down, his eyes fixed, he suffered his legs to hang on each side
of his horse, and said to himself, in that vague sort of reverie which
ascends sometimes to the sublimest eloquence:

"No more friends! no more future! no more anything! My energies are
broken like the bonds of our ancient friendship. Oh, old age is coming,
cold and inexorable; it envelopes in its funeral crepe all that was
brilliant, all that was embalming in my youth; then it throws that sweet
burthen on its shoulders and carries it away with the rest into the
fathomless gulf of death."

A shudder crept through the heart of the Gascon, so brave and so strong
against all the misfortunes of life; and during some moments the clouds
appeared black to him, the earth slippery and full of pits as that of
cemeteries.

"Whither am I going?" said he to himself. "What am I going to do!
Alone, quite alone - without family, without friends! Bah!" cried he all
at once. And he clapped spurs to his horse, who, having found nothing