between contentment and ill-humor. D’Artagnan gave way first to that itching at the tip of his tongue which he so habitually experienced.

“Do you remember, Athos,” said he, “the passage of the ‘Memoires de D’Aubigny,’ in which that devoted servant, a Gascon like myself, poor as myself, and, I was going to add, brave as myself, relates instances of the meanness of Henry IV.? My father always told me, I remember, that D’Aubigny was a liar. But, nevertheless, examine how all the princes, the issue of the great Henry, keep up the character of the race.”

“Nonsense!” said Athos, “the kings of France misers? You are mad, my friend.”

“Oh! you are so perfect yourself, you never