He ascended the staircase leading to the first story, and perceived, in Porthos's own chamber, a heap of clothes of all colors and materials, upon which Mousqueton had laid himself down after heaping them all on the floor together.

It was the legacy of the faithful friend.

Those clothes were truly his own; they had been given to him; the hand of Mousqueton was stretched over these relics, which he was kissing with his lips, with all his face, and covered with his body.

D'Artagnan approached to console the poor fellow.
"My God!" said he, "he does not stir--he has fainted!" But D'Artagnan was mistaken.

Mousqueton was dead! Dead, like the dog who, having lost his master, crawls back to die upon his cloak..