“Entirely,” said Porthos.  “Continue.”

“No; I have read enough of it; but, since it is you, my dear Porthos, who direct the works, what need have you of setting down your system so formally in writing?”

“Oh! my dear friend, death!”

“How! death?”

“Why, we are all mortal, are we not?”

“That is true,” said D’Artagnan; “you have a reply for everything, my friend.”  And he replaced the plan upon the stone.

But however short the time he had the plan in his hands, D’Artagnan had been able to distinguish, under the enormous writing of Porthos, a much more delicate hand, which reminded him of certain letters to Marie Michon, with which he had been acquainted in his youth.  Only the India-rubber had passed and repassed so often over this writing that it might have escaped a less practiced eye than that of our musketeer.

“Bravo! my friend, bravo!” said D’Artagnan.

“And now you know all that you want to know, do you not?” said Porthos, wheeling about.

“Mordioux! yes, only do me one last favor, dear friend!”

“Speak, I am master here.”

“Do me the pleasure to tell me the name of that gentleman who is walking yonder.”

“Where, there?”

“Behind the soldiers.”

“Followed by a lackey?”

“Exactly.”

“In company with a mean sort of fellow, dressed in black?”

“Yes, I mean him.”

“That is M. Getard.”

“And who is Getard, my friend?”

“He is the architect of the house.”

“Of what house?”

“Of M. Fouquet’s house.”

“Ah! ah!” cried D’Artagnan, “you are of the household of M. Fouquet, then, Porthos?”

“I! what do you mean by that?” said the topographer, blushing to the top of his ears.

“Why, you say the house, when speaking of Belle-Isle, as if you were speaking of the chateau of Pierrefonds.”

Porthos bit his lip.  “Belle-Isle, my friend,” said he, “belongs to M. Fouquet, does it not?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

“As Pierrefonds belongs to me?”

“I told you I believed so; there are no two words to that.”

“Did you ever see a man there who is accustomed to walk about with a ruler in his hand?”

“No; but I might have seen him there, if he really walked there.”

“Well, that gentleman is M. Boulingrin.”

“Who is M. Boulingrin?”

“Now we are coming to it.  If, when this gentleman is walking with a ruler in his hand, any one should ask me, — ‘who is M. Boulingrin?’ I should reply:  ‘He is the architect of the house.’  Well!  M. Getard is the Boulingrin of M. Fouquet.  But he has nothing to do with the fortifications, which are my department alone; do you understand? mine, absolutely mine.”

“Ah!  Porthos,” cried D’Artagnan, letting his arms fall as a conquered man gives up his sword; “ah! my friend, you are not only a Herculean topographer, you are, still further, a dialectician of the first water.”