LITMIR.BIZ

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hand.

      The host drew back and burst into tears.

      “This will teach you,” said d’Artagnan, “to treat the guests God sends you in a more courteous fashion.”

      “God? Say the devil!”

      “My dear friend,” said d’Artagnan, “if you annoy us in this manner we will all four go and shut ourselves up in your cellar, and we will see if the mischief is as great as you say.”

      “Oh, gentlemen,” said the host, “I have been wrong. I confess it, but pardon to every sin! You are gentlemen, and I am a poor innkeeper. You will have pity on me.”

      “Ah, if you speak in that way,” said Athos, “you will break my heart, and the tears will flow from my eyes as the wine flowed from the cask. We are not such devils as we appear to be. Come hither, and let us talk.”

      The host approached with hesitation.

      “Come hither, I say, and don’t be afraid,” continued Athos. “At the very moment when I was about to pay you, I had placed my purse on the table.”

      “Yes, monsieur.”

      “That purse contained sixty pistoles; where is it?”

      “Deposited with the justice; they said it was bad money.”

      “Very well; get me my purse back and keep the sixty pistoles.”

      “But Monseigneur knows very well that justice never lets go that which it once lays hold of. If it were bad money, there might be some hopes; but unfortunately, those were all good pieces.”

      “Manage the matter as well as you can, my good man; it does not concern me, the more so as I have not a livre left.”

      “Come,” said d’Artagnan, “let us inquire further. Athos’s horse, where is that?”

      “In the stable.”

      “How much is it worth?”

      “Fifty pistoles at most.”

      “It’s worth eighty. Take it, and there ends the matter.”

      “What,” cried Athos, “are you selling my horse—my Bajazet? And pray upon what shall I make my campaign; upon Grimaud?”

      “I have brought you another,” said d’Artagnan.

      “Another?”

      “And a magnificent one!” cried the host.

      “Well, since there is another finer and younger, why, you may take the old one; and let us drink.”

      “What?” asked the host, quite cheerful again.

      “Some of that at the bottom, near the laths. There are twenty-five bottles of it left; all the rest were broken by my fall. Bring six of them.”

      “Why, this man is a cask!” said the host, aside. “If he only remains here a fortnight, and pays for what he drinks, I shall soon re-establish my business.”

      “And don’t forget,” said d’Artagnan, “to bring up four bottles of the same sort for the two English gentlemen.”

      “And now,” said Athos, “while they bring the wine, tell me, d’Artagnan, what has become of the others, come!”

      D’Artagnan related how he had found Porthos in bed with a strained knee, and Aramis at a table between two theologians. As he finished, the host entered with the wine ordered and a ham which, fortunately for him, had been left out of the cellar.

      “That’s well!” said Athos, filling his glass and that of his friend; “here’s to Porthos and Aramis! But you, d’Artagnan, what is the matter with you, and what has happened to you personally? You have a sad air.”

      “Alas,” said d’Artagnan, “it is because I am the most unfortunate.”

      “Tell me.”

      “Presently,” said d’Artagnan.

      “Presently! And why presently? Because you think I am drunk? D’Artagnan, remember this! My ideas are never so clear as when I have had plenty of wine. Speak, then, I am all ears.”

      D’Artagnan related his adventure with Mme. Bonacieux. Athos listened to him without a frown; and when he had finished, said, “Trifles, only trifles!” That was his favorite word.

      “You always say TRIFLES, my dear Athos!” said d’Artagnan, “and that come very ill from you, who have never loved.”

      The drink-deadened eye of Athos flashed out, but only for a moment; it became as dull and vacant as before.

      “That’s true,” said he, quietly, “for my part I have never loved.”

      “Acknowledge, then, you stony heart,” said d’Artagnan, “that you are wrong to be so hard upon us tender hearts.”

      “Tender hearts! Pierced hearts!” said Athos.

      “What do you say?”

      “I say that love is a lottery in which he who wins, wins death! You are very fortunate to have lost, believe me, my dear d’Artagnan. And if I have any counsel to give, it is, always lose!”

      “She seemed to love me so!”

      “She SEEMED, did she?”

      “Oh, she DID love me!”

      “You child, why, there is not a man who has not believed, as you do, that his mistress loved him, and there lives not a man who has not been deceived by his mistress.”

      “Except you, Athos, who never had one.”

      “That’s true,” said Athos, after a moment’s silence, “that’s true! I never had one! Let us drink!”

      “But then, philosopher that you are,” said d’Artagnan, “instruct me, support me. I stand in need of being taught and consoled.”

      “Consoled for what?”

      “For my misfortune.”

      “Your misfortune is laughable,” said Athos, shrugging his shoulders; “I should like to know what you would say if I were to relate to you a real tale of love!”

      “Which has happened to you?”

      “Or one of my friends, what matters?”

      “Tell it, Athos, tell it.”

      “Better if I drink.”

      “Drink and relate, then.”

      “Not a bad idea!” said Athos, emptying and refilling his glass. “The two things agree marvelously well.”

      “I am all attention,” said d’Artagnan.

      Athos collected himself, and in proportion as he did so, d’Artagnan saw that he became pale. He was at that period of intoxication in which vulgar drinkers fall on the floor and go to sleep. He kept himself upright and dreamed, without sleeping. This somnambulism of drunkenness had something frightful in it.

      “You particularly wish it?” asked he.

      “I pray for it,” said d’Artagnan.

      “Be it then as you desire. One of my friends—one of my friends, please to observe, not myself,” said Athos, interrupting himself with a melancholy smile, “one of the counts of my province—that is to say, of Berry—noble as a Dandolo or a Montmorency, at twenty-five years of age fell in love with a girl of sixteen, beautiful as fancy can paint. Through the ingenuousness of her age beamed an ardent mind, not of the woman, but of the poet. She did not please; she intoxicated. She lived in a small town with her brother, who was a curate. Both had recently come into the country. They came nobody knew whence; but when seeing

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