“The forest,” said Planchet. “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 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. 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.”