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 that intervenes.”

“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.