But Porthos, good, harmless Porthos! To see Porthos hungry, to see Mousqueton without gold lace, imprisoned, perhaps; to see Pierrefonds, Bracieux, razed to the very stones, dishonored even to the timber,--these were so many poignant griefs for D'Artagnan, and every time that one of these griefs struck him, he bounded like a horse at the sting of a gadfly beneath the vaults of foliage where he has sought shady shelter from the burning sun.

Never was the man of spirit subjected to _ennui_, if his body was exposed to fatigue; never did the man of healthy body fail to find life light, if he had something to engage his mind.

D'Artagnan, riding fast, thinking as constantly, alighted from his horse in Pairs, fresh and tender in his muscles as the athlete preparing for the gymnasium.

The king did not expect him so soon, and had just departed for the chase towards Meudon.
D'Artagnan, instead of riding after the king, as he would formerly have done, took off his boots, had a bath, and waited till his majesty should return dusty and tired.

He occupied the interval of five hours in taking, as people say, the air of the house, and in arming himself against all ill chances.