"ah, ah! is that you, dear friend?" exclaimed porthos. "how do you think these garments fit me?"
"wonderfully," said d'artagnan; but i come to offer you a dress which will become you still better."
"what?" asked porthos.
"that of a lieutenant of musketeers."
susy had gone out--gone out with their usual band, as she did every night in these sultry summer weeks, gone out after her talk with nick, as if nothing had happened, as if his whole world and hers had not crashed in ruins at their feet. ah, poor susy! after all, she had merely obeyed the instinct of self preservation, the old hard habit of keeping up, going ahead and hiding her troubles; unless indeed the habit had already engendered indifference, and it had become as easy for her as for most of her friends to pass from drama to dancing, from sorrow to the cinema. what of soul was left, he wondered--?
m. figuier maintains that human souls are for the most part the surviving souls of deceased animals; in general, the souls of precocious musical children like mozart come from nightingales, while the souls of great architects have passed into them from beavers, etc., etc.
 figuier, the to-morrow of death, p. 247.
all winter he dreaded summer. summer poisoned the spring for him. only during the autumn did he experience anything of peace. summer was then over, and between him and another summer stretched the blessed perspective of winter. then daniel wise drew a long breath and looked about him, and spelled out the beauty of the earth in his simple primer of understanding. daniel had in his garden behind the house a prolific grape-vine. he ate the grapes, full of the savor of the dead summer, with the gusto of a poet who can at last enjoy triumph over his enemy.
possibly it was the vein of poetry in daniel which made him a coward -- which made him so vulnerable. during the autumn he reveled in the tints of the landscape which his sitting-room windows commanded. there were many maples and oaks. day by day the roofs of the houses in the village became more evident, as the maples shed their crimson and gold and purple rags of summer. the oaks remained, great shaggy masses of dark gold and burn- ing russet; later they took on soft hues, making clearer the blue firmament between the boughs. daniel watched the autumn trees with pure delight. "he will go to-day," he said of a flaming maple after a night of frost which had crisped the white arches of the grass in his dooryard. all day he sat and watched the maple cast its glory, and did not bother much with his simple meals. the wise house was erected on three terraces. always through the dry summer the grass was burned to an ugly negation of color. later, when rain came, the grass was a brilliant green, patched with rosy sorrel and golden stars of arnica. then later still came the diamond brilliance of the frost. so dry were the terraces in summer-time that no flowers would flourish. when daniel's mother had come to the house as a bride she had planted under a window a blush-rose bush, but always the blush-roses were few and covered with insects. it was not until the autumn, when it was time for the flowers to die, that the sorrel blessing of waste lands flushed rosily and the arnica showed its stars of slender threads of gold, and there might even be a slight glimpse of purple aster and a dusty spray or two of goldenrod. then daniel did not shrink from the sight of the terraces. in summer-time the awful negative glare of them under the afternoon sun maddened him.
monday cxlix bis