On D’Artagnan’s lips there played one of those rare and melancholy smiles which seemed to emanate from the depth of his soul — the last trace of youth and happiness that had survived life’s disillusions.

“And you — fellows,” resumed Mousqueton, “stay near Monsieur le Comte d’Artagnan and pay him every attention in your power whilst I go to prepare my lord for his visit.”

And mounting his horse Mousqueton rode off down the avenue on the grass at a hand gallop.

“Ah, there! there’s something promising,” said D’Artagnan. “No mysteries, no cloak to hide one’s self in, no cunning policy here; people laugh outright, they weep for joy here. I see nothing but faces a