at breakfast, it was with a pang that I must lay it down and turn
to my own labours; for no part of the world has ever seemed to me so
charming as these pages, and not even my friends are quite so real,
perhaps quite so dear, as d'Artagnan.

Since then I have been going to and fro at very brief intervals in my
favourite book; and I have now just risen from my last (let me call it
my fifth) perusal, having liked it better and admired it more seriously
than ever. Perhaps I have a sense of ownership, being so well known in
these six volumes. Perhaps I think that d'Artagnan delights to have me
read of him, and Louis Quatorze is gratified, and Fouquet throws me a
look, and Aramis, although he knows I do not love him, yet plays to me
with his best graces, as to an old patron of the show. Perhaps, if I am
not careful, something may befall me like what befell George IV. about
the battle of Waterloo, and I may come to fancy the "Vicomte" one of the
first, and Heaven knows the best, of my own works. At least, I avow
myself a partisan; and when I compare the popularity of the "Vicomte"
with that of "Monte Cristo," or its own elder brother, the "Trois
Mousquetaires," I confess I am both pained and puzzled.

To those who have already made acquaintance with the titular hero in
the pages of "Vingt Ans Apres," perhaps the name may act as a deterrent.
A man might well stand back if he supposed he were to follow, for six
volumes, so well-conducted, so fine-spoken, and withal so dreary a
cavalier as Bragelonne. But the fear is idle. I may be said to have
passed the best years of my life in these six volumes, and my
acquaintance with Raoul has never gone beyond a bow; and when he, who
has so long pretended to be alive, is at last suffered to pretend to be
dead, I am sometimes reminded of a saying in an earlier volume: "_Enfin,
dit Miss Stewart_,"--and it was of Bragelonne she spoke--"_enfin il a
fait quelquechose: c'est, ma foi! bien heureux_." I am reminded of it,
as I say; and the next moment, when Athos dies of his death, and my dear
d'Artagnan bursts into his storm of sobbing, I can but deplore my
flippancy.

Or perhaps it is La Valliere that the reader of "Vingt Ans Apres" is
inclined to flee. Well, he is right there too, though not so right.
Louise is no success. Her creator has spared no pains; she is
well-meant, not ill-designed, sometimes has a word that rings out true;
sometimes, if only for a breath, she may even engage our sy