iling, "a company which amuses me always: but,
never mind that, I am happy to receive you." But when saying this, the
man with the worn boots cast an uneasy look at his table, from which
the oysters had disappeared, and upon which there was nothing left but a
morsel of salt bacon.

"Monsieur," D'Artagnan hastened to say, "the host is bringing me up a
pretty piece of roasted poultry and a superb _tourteau_." D'Artagnan had
read in the look of his companion, however rapidly it disappeared, the
fear of an attack by a parasite: he divined justly. At this opening,
the features of the man of modest exterior relaxed; and, as if he had
watched the moment for his entrance, as D'Artagnan spoke, the host
appeared, bearing the announced dishes. The _tourteau_ and the teal were
added to the morsel of broiled bacon; D'Artagnan and his guest bowed,
sat down opposite to each other, and, like two brothers, shared the
bacon and the other dishes.

"Monsieur," said D'Artagnan, "you must confess that association is a
wonderful thing."

"How so?" replied the stranger, with his mouth full.

"Well, I will tell you," replied D'Artagnan.

The stranger gave a short truce to the movement of his jaws, in order to
hear the better.

"In the first place," continued D'Artagnan, "instead of one candle,
which each of us had, we have two."

"That is true!" said the stranger, struck with the extreme lucidity of
the observation.

"Then I see that you eat my _tourteau_ in preference, whilst I, in
preference, eat your bacon."

"That is true again."

"And then, in addition to being better lighted and eating what we
prefer, I place the pleasure of your company."

"Truly, monsieur, you are very jovial," said the unknown, cheerfully.

"Yes, monsieur; jovial, as all people are who carry nothing on their
minds, or, for that matter, in their heads. Oh! I can see it is quite
another sort of thing with you," continued D'Artagnan; "I can read in
your eyes all sorts of genius."

"Oh, monsieur!"

"Come, confess one thing."

"What is that?"

"That you are a learned man."

"_Ma foi!_ monsieur."

"_Hein?_"

"Almost."

"Come, then!"

"I am an author."

"There!" cried D'Artagnan, clapping his hands, "I knew I could not be
deceived! It is a miracle!"

"Monsieur--"

"What, shall I have the honor of passing the evening in the society of
an author, of a celebrated author, perhaps?"

"Oh!" said the unknown, blushing, "celebrated, monsieur, cele