the object, he perfectly well knew what it was. It was a character in printing.
“Can you guess, now, what this is?” continued the poet.
“No,” said D’Artagnan, “no, ma foi!”
“Well, monsieur,” said M. Jupenet, “this little piece of metal is a printing letter.”
“Bah!”
“A capital.”
“Stop, stop, stop,” said D’Artagnan, opening his eyes very innocently.
“Yes, monsieur, a capital; the first letter of my name.”
“And this is a letter, is it?”