moment he began to eat with a certain well-bred enthusiasm.

The king occasionally looked at the different persons who were at table with him, and, en connoisseur, could appreciate the different dispositions of his guests.

“Monsieur du Vallon!” he said.

Porthos was enjoying a salmi de lievre, and swallowed half of the back. His name, pronounced in such a manner, made him start, and by a vigorous effort of his gullet he absorbed the whole mouthful.

“Sire,” replied Porthos, in a stifled voice, but sufficiently intelligible, nevertheless.

“Let those filets d’agneau be handed to Monsieur du Vallon,” said the king; “do you like brown meats, M. du Vallon?”