mustache, a last turn to his hair, brushed, from habit, the brim of his hat with the sleeve of his doublet, and went downstairs. Scarcely had he descended the last step of the threshold when he saw Athos bent down toward the ground, as if he were looking for a crown-piece in the dust.

“Good-morning, my dear host,” cried D’Artagnan.

“Good-day to you; have you slept well?”

“Excellently, Athos, but what are you looking for? You are perhaps a tulip fancier?”

“My dear friend, if I am, you must not laugh at me for being so.

In the country people alter; one gets to like, without knowing it, all those beautiful objects that God causes to spring