mpathies. But
I have never envied the King his triumph. And so far from pitying
Bragelonne for his defeat, I could wish him no worse (not for lack of
malice, but imagination) than to be wedded to that lady. Madame enchants
me; I can forgive that royal minx her most serious offences; I can
thrill and soften with the King on that memorable occasion when he goes
to upbraid and remains to flirt; and when it comes to the "_Allons,
aimez-moi donc_," it is my heart that melts in the bosom of de Guiche.
Not so with Louise. Readers cannot fail to have remarked that what an
author tells us of the beauty or the charm of his creatures goes for
nought; that we know instantly better; that the heroine cannot open her
mouth but what, all in a moment, the fine phrases of preparation fall
from round her like the robes from Cinderella, and she stands before
us, self-betrayed, as a poor, ugly, sickly wench, or perhaps a strapping
market-woman. Authors, at least, know it well; a heroine will too often
start the trick of "getting ugly"; and no disease is more difficult to
cure. I said authors; but indeed I had a side eye to one author in
particular, with whose works I am very well acquainted, though I cannot
read them, and who has spent many vigils in this cause, sitting beside
his ailing puppets and (like a magician) wearying his art to restore
them to youth and beauty. There are others who ride too high for these
misfortunes. Who doubts the loveliness of Rosalind? Arden itself was not
more lovely. Who ever questioned the perennial charm of Rose Jocelyn,
Lucy Desborough, or Clara Middleton? fair women with fair names, the
daughters of George Meredith. Elizabeth Bennet has but to speak, and I
am at her knees. Ah! these are the creators of desirable women. They
would never have fallen in the mud with Dumas and poor La Valliere. It
is my only consolation that not one of all of them, except the first,
could have plucked at the moustache of d'Artagnan.

Or perhaps, again, a portion of readers stumble at the threshold. In so
vast a mansion there were sure to be back stairs and kitchen offices
where no one would delight to linger; but it was at least unhappy that
the vestibule should be so badly lighted; and until, in the seventeenth
chapter, d'Artagnan sets off to seek his friends, I must confess, the
book goes heavily enough. But, from thenceforward, what a feast is
spread! Monk kidnapped; d'Artagnan enriched; Mazarin's death; the ever
delectabl