“So, then?” said Athos, offering his hand to D’Artagnan.

“’Tis settled,” replied D’Artagnan.  “I find England a charming country, and I stay —­ but on one condition only.”

“What is it?”

“That I am not forced to learn English.”

“Well, now,” said Athos, triumphantly, “I swear to you, my friend, by the God who hears us —­ I believe that there is a power watching over us, and that we shall all four see France again.”

“So be it!” said D’Artagnan, “but I —­ I confess I have a contrary conviction.”

“Our good D’Artagnan,” said Aramis, “represents among us the opposition in parliament, which always says no, and always does aye.”

“But in the meantime saves the country,” added Athos.

“Well, now that everything is decided,” cried Porthos, rubbing his hands, “suppose we think of dinner!  It seems to me that in the most critical positions of our lives we have always dined.”

“Oh! yes, speak of dinner in a country where for a feast they eat boiled mutton, and as a treat drink beer.  What the devil did you come to such a country for, Athos?  But I forgot,” added the Gascon, smiling, “pardon, I forgot you are no longer Athos; but never mind, let us hear your plan for dinner, Porthos.”

“My plan!”

“Yes, have you a plan?”

“No!  I am hungry, that is all.”

“Pardieu, if that is all, I am hungry, too; but it is not everything to be hungry, one must find something to eat, unless we browse on the grass, like our horses ——­ "

“Ah!” exclaimed Aramis, who was not quite so indifferent to the good things of the earth as Athos, “do you remember, when we were at Parpaillot, the beautiful oysters that we ate?”

“And the legs of mutton of the salt marshes,” said Porthos, smacking his lips.

“But,” suggested D’Artagnan, “have we not our friend Mousqueton, who managed for us so well at Chantilly, Porthos?”

“Yes,” said Porthos, “we have Mousqueton, but since he has been steward, he has become very heavy; never mind, let us call him, and to make sure that he will reply agreeably ——­

“Here!  Mouston,” cried Porthos.

Mouston appeared, with a most piteous face.

“What is the matter, my dear M. Mouston?” asked D’Artagnan.  “Are you ill?”

“Sir, I am very hungry,” replied Mouston.

“Well, it is just for that reason that we have called you, my good M. Mouston.  Could you not procure us a few of those nice little rabbits, and some of those delicious partridges, of which you used to make fricassees at the hotel ——­ ?  ’Faith, I do not remember the name of the hotel.”

“At the hotel of ——­ ,” said Porthos; “by my faith —­ nor do I remember it either.”

“It does not matter; and a few of those bottles of old Burgundy wine, which cured your master so quickly of his sprain!”

“Alas! sir,” said Mousqueton, “I much fear that what you ask for are very rare things in this detestable and barren country, and I think we should do better to go and seek hospitality from the owner of a little house we see on the fringe of the forest.”