"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 - "