ours.”
“I have sometimes thought as you do, Athos.”
“She had a son, that unhappy woman?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever heard of him?”
“Never.”
“He must be about twenty-three years of age,” said Athos, in a low tone. “I often think of that young man, D’Artagnan.”
“Strange! for I had forgotten him,” said the lieutenant.
Athos smiled; the smile was melancholy.
“And Lord de Winter-do you know anything about him?”
“I know that he is in high favor with Charles I.”
“The fortunes of that monarch now are at low water. He shed the blood of Strafford; that confirms what I said just now-blood will have blood. And the queen?”
“What queen?”
“Madame Henrietta of England, daughter of Henry IV.”
“She is at the Louvre, as you know.”
“Yes, and I hear in bitter poverty. Her daughter, during the severest cold, was obliged for want of fire to remain in bed. Do you grasp that?” said Athos, shrugging his shoulders; “the daughter of Henry IV. shivering for want of a fagot! Why did she not ask from any one of us a home instead of from Mazarin? She should have wanted nothing.”
“Have you ever seen the queen of England?” inquired D’Artagnan.
“No; but my mother, as a child, saw her. Did I ever tell you that my mother was lady of honor to Marie de Medici?”
“Never. You know, Athos, you never spoke much of such matters.”
“Ah, mon Dieu, yes, you are right,” Athos replied; “but then there must be some occasion for speaking.”
“Porthos wouldn’t have waited for it so patiently,” said D’Artagnan, with a smile.
“Every one according to his nature, my dear D’Artagnan. Porthos, in spite of a touch of vanity, has many excellent qualities. Have you seen him?”
“I left him five days ago,” said D’Artagnan, and he portrayed with Gascon wit and sprightliness the magnificence of Porthos in his Chateau of Pierrefonds; nor did he neglect to launch a few arrows of wit at the excellent Monsieur Mouston.
“I sometimes wonder,” replied Athos, smiling at that gayety which recalled the good old days, “that we could form an association of men who would be, after twenty years of separation, still so closely bound together. Friendship throws out deep roots in honest hearts, D’Artagnan. Believe me, it is only the evil-minded who deny friendship; they cannot understand it. And Aramis?”
“I have seen him also,” said D’Artagnan; “but he seemed to me cold.”
“Ah, you have seen Aramis?” said Athos, turning on D’Artagnan a searching look. “Why, it is a veritable pilgrimage, my dear friend, that you are making to the Temple of Friendship, as the poets would say.”
“Why, yes,” replied D’Artagnan, with embarrassment.
“Aramis, you know,” continued Athos, “is naturally cold, and then he is always involved in intrigues with women.”
“I believe he is at this moment in a very complicated one,” said D’Artagnan.
Athos made no reply.
“He is not curious,” thought D’Artagnan.
Athos not only failed to reply, he even changed the subject of conversation.
“You see,” said he, calling D’Artagnan’s attention to the fact that they had come back to the chateau after an hour’s walk, “we have made a tour of my domains.”
“All is charming and everything savors of nobility,” replied D’Artagnan.
At this instant they heard the sound of horses’ feet.
“‘Tis Raoul who has come back,” said Athos; “and we can now hear how the poor child is.”
In fact, the young man appeared at the gate, covered with dust, entered the courtyard, leaped from his horse, which he consigned to the charge of a groom, and then went to greet the count and D’Artagnan.
“Monsieur,” said Athos, placing his hand on D’Artagnan’s shoulder, “monsieur is the Chevalier D’Artagnan of whom you have often heard me speak, Raoul.”
“Monsieur,” said the young man, saluting again and more profoundly, “monsieur le comte has pronounced your name before me as an example whenever he wished to speak of an intrepid and generous gentleman.”
That little compliment could not fail to move D’Artagnan. He extended a hand to Raoul and said:
“My young friend, all the praises that are given me should be passed on to the count here; for he has educated me in everything and it is not his fault that his pupil profited so little from his instructions. But he will make it up in you I am sure. I like your manner, Raoul, and your politeness has touched me.”
Athos was more delighted than can be told. He looked at D’Artagnan with an expression of gratitude and then bestowed on Raoul one of those strange smiles, of which children are so proud when they receive them.
“Now,” said D’Artagnan to himself, noticing that silent play of countenance, “I am sure of it.”
“I hope the accident has been of no consequence?”
“They don’t yet know, sir, on account of the swelling; but the doctor is afraid some tendon has been injured.”
At this moment a little boy, half peasant, half foot-boy, came to announce supper.
Athos led his guest into a dining-room of moderate size, the windows of which opened on one side on a garden, on the other on a hot-house full of magnificent flowers.
D’Artagnan glanced at the dinner service. The plate was magnificent, old, and appertaining to the family. D’Artagnan stopped to look at a sideboard on which was a superb ewer of silver.
“That workmanship is divine!” he exclaimed.
“Yes, a chef d’oeuvre of the great Florentine sculptor, Benvenuto Cellini,” replied Athos.
“What battle does it represent?”
“That of Marignan, just at the point where one of my forefathers is offering his sword to Francis I., who has broken his. It was on that occasion that my ancestor, Enguerrand de la Fere, was made a knight of the Order of St. Michael; besides which, the king, fifteen years afterward, gave him also this ewer and a sword which you may have seen formerly in my house, also a lovely specimen of workmanship. Men were giants in those times,” said Athos; “now we are pigmies in comparison. Let us sit down to supper. Call Charles,” he added, addressing the boy who waited.
“My good Charles, I particularly recommend to your care Planchet,
