“Oh! oh!” said he, “what is this all about?  Have I to do with men of straw? Corne de boeuf! stand on one side, and you shall see how this is to be done.”

“Peste!” said D’Artagnan, “will he pretend to raise that rock? that would be a sight worth looking at.”

The workmen, as commanded by the engineer, drew back with their ears down, and shaking their heads, with the exception of the one who held the plank, who prepared to perform the office.  The man with the feathers went up to the stone, stooped, slipped his hands under the face lying upon the ground, stiffened his Herculean muscles, and without a strain, with a slow motion, like that of a machine, lifted the end of the rock a foot from the ground.  The workman who held the plank profited by the space thus given him, and slipped the roller under the stone.

“That’s the way,” said the giant, not letting the rock fall again, but placing it upon its support.

“Mordioux!” cried D’Artagnan, “I know but one man capable of such a feat of strength.”

“Hein!” cried the colossus, turning round.

“Porthos!” murmured D’Artagnan, seized with stupor, “Porthos at Belle-Isle!”

On his part, the man with the feathers fixed his eyes upon the disguised lieutenant, and, in spite of his metamorphosis, recognized him.  “D’Artagnan!” cried he; and the color mounted to his face.  “Hush!” said he to D’Artagnan.

“Hush!” in his turn, said the musketeer.  In fact, if Porthos had just been discovered by D’Artagnan, D’Artagnan had just been discovered by Porthos.  The interest of the particular secret of each struck them both at the same instant.  Nevertheless the first movement of the two men was to throw their arms around each other.  What they wished to conceal from the bystanders, was not their friendship, but their names.  But, after the embrace, came reflection.

“What the devil brings Porthos to Belle-Isle, lifting stones?” said D’Artagnan; only D’Artagnan uttered that question in a low voice.  Less strong in diplomacy than his friend, Porthos thought aloud.

“How the devil did you come to Belle-Isle?” asked he of D’Artagnan; “and what do you want to do here?” It was necessary to reply without hesitation.  To hesitate in answer to Porthos would have been a check, for which the self-love of D’Artagnan would never have consoled itself.

“Pardieu! my friend, I am at Belle-Isle because you are here.”

“Ah, bah!” said Porthos, visibly stupefied with the argument and seeking to account for it to himself, with the felicity of deduction we know to be particular to him.

“Without doubt,” continued D’Artagnan, unwilling to give his friend time to recollect himself, “I have been to see you at Pierrefonds.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes.”

“And you did not find me there?”

“No, but I found Mouston.”