said D’Artagnan, laughing with an air of simplicity so stupid, that the poet was completely his dupe.

“No,” replied he; “but I am too lazy to write, and when I have a verse in my head, I print it immediately. That is a labor spared.”

“Mordioux!” thought D’Artagnan to himself, “this must be cleared up.” And under a pretext, which did not embarrass the musketeer, who was fertile in expedients, he left the table, went downstairs, ran to the shed under which stood the poet’s little cart, and poked the point of his poniard into the stuff which enveloped one of the packages, which he found full of types, like those which the poet had in his pocket.

“Humph!” said D’Artagnan,