w him a pension, and will go
and compose verses at Fontainebleau, upon some Mancini or other, whose
eyes the queen will scratch out. She is a Spaniard, you see,--this queen
of ours; and she has, for mother-in-law, Madame Anne of Austria. I know
something of the Spaniards of the house of Austria."

"And next?"

"Well, after having torn the silver lace from the uniforms of his Swiss,
because lace is too expensive, he will dismount his musketeers, because
oats and hay of a horse cost five sols a day."

"Oh! do not say that."

"Of what consequence is it to _me?_ I am no longer a musketeer, am
I? Let them be on horseback, let them be on foot, let them carry a
larding-pin, a spit, a sword, or nothing--what is it to _me?_"

"My dear Monsieur d'Artagnan, I beseech you speak no more ill of the
king. I am almost in his service, and my father would be very angry
with me for having heard, even from your mouth, words injurious to his
majesty."

"Your father, eh! He is a knight in every bad cause. _Pardieu!_ yes,
your father is a brave man, a Caesar, it is true--but a man without
perception."

"Now, my dear chevalier," exclaimed Raoul, laughing, "are you going to
speak ill of my father, of him you call the great Athos? Truly you are
in a bad vein to-day; riches render you as sour as poverty renders other
people."

"_Pardieu!_ you are right. I am a rascal and in my dotage; I am an
unhappy wretch grown old; a tent-cord untwisted, a pierced cuirass, a
boot without a sole, a spur without a rowel;--but do me the pleasure to
add one thing."

"What is that, my dear Monsieur d'Artagnan?"

"Simply say: 'Mazarin was a pitiful wretch.'"

"Perhaps he is dead."

"More the reason--I say _was_; if I did not hope that he was dead, I
would entreat you to say: 'Mazarin is a pitiful wretch.' Come, say so,
say so, for love of me."

"Well, I will."

"Say it!"

"Mazarin was a pitiful wretch," said Raoul, smiling at the musketeer,
who roared with laughter, as in his best days.

"A moment," said the latter; "you have spoken my first proposition,
here is the conclusion of it,--repeat, Raoul, repeat: 'But I regret
Mazarin.'"

"Chevalier!"

"You will not say it? Well, then, I will say it twice for you."

"But you would regret Mazarin?"

And they were still laughing and discussing this profession of
principles, when one of the shop-boys entered. "A letter, monsieur,"
said he, "for M. d'Artagnan."

"Thank you; give it me," cried th