"It is the horizon--a thick line of green, which is yellow in the spring, green in the summer, red in the autumn, and white in the winter." "All very well, but it is like a curtain, which prevents one seeing a greater distance." "Yes," said Planchet; "still one can see, at all events, everything between." "Ah! the open country," said Porthos.

"But what is that I see out there--crosses and stones ?" "Ah! that is the cemetery," exclaimed D'Artagnan.
"Precisely," said Planchet; "I assure you it is very curious.

Hardly a day passes that some one is not buried there; for Fontainebleau is by no means an inconsiderable place.

Sometimes we see young girls clothed in white carrying banners; at others, some of the town-council, or rich citizens, with choristers and all the parish authorities; and then, too, we see some of the officers of the king's household." "I should not like that," said Porthos.
"There is not much amusement in it, at all events," said D'Artagnan.
"I assure you it encourages religious thoughts," replied Planchet.
"Oh, I don't deny that." "But," continued Planchet, "we must all die one day or another, and I once met with a maxim somewhere which I have remembered, that the thought of death is a thought that will do us all good." "I am far from saying the contrary," said Porthos.
"But," objected D'Artagnan, "the thought of green fields, flowers, rivers, blue horizons, extensive and boundless plains, is no less likely to do us good." "If I had any, I should be far from rejecting them," said Planchet; "but possessing only this little cemetery, full of flowers, so moss-grown, shady and quiet, I am contented with it, and I think of those who live in town, in the Rue des Lombards, for instance, and who have to listen to the rumbling of a couple of thousand vehicles every day, and to the trampling of a hundred and fifty thousand foot-passengers." "But living," said Porthos; "living, remember that." "That is exactly the reason," said Planchet timidly, "why I feel it does me good to see a few dead." "Upon my word," said D'Artagnan, "that fellow Planchet was born to be a poet as well as a grocer." "Monsieur," said Planchet, "I am one of those good-humored sort of men whom Heaven created for the purpose of living a certain space of time, and of considering all things good which they meet with during their stay on earth." D'Artagnan sat down close to the window, and as there seemed to be something substantial in Planchet's philosophy, he mused over it.
"Ah, ah!" exclaimed Porthos, "if I am not mistaken, we are going to have a representation now, for I think I heard something like chanting." "Yes," said D'Artagnan, "I hear singing too." "Oh, it is only a burial of a very poor description," said Planchet, disdainfully; "the officiating priest, the beadle, and only one chorister boy, nothing more.

You observe, messieurs, that the defunct lady or gentleman could not have been of very high rank." "No; no one seems to be following the coffin." "Yes," said Porthos; "I see a man." "You are right; a man wrapped up in a cloak," said D'Artagnan.
"It's not worth looking at," said Planchet.
"I find it interesting," said D'Artagnan, leaning on the window.
"Come, come, you are beginning to take a fancy to the place already," said Planchet, delightedly; "it is exactly my own case.