“Have you ever heard of him?”

“Never.”

“He must be about twenty-three years of age,” said Athos, in a low tone.  “I often think of that young man, D’Artagnan.”

“Strange! for I had forgotten him,” said the lieutenant.

Athos smiled; the smile was melancholy.

“And Lord de Winter —­ do you know anything about him?”

“I know that he is in high favor with Charles I.”

“The fortunes of that monarch now are at low water.  He shed the blood of Strafford; that confirms what I said just now —­ blood will have blood.  And the queen?”

“What queen?”

“Madame Henrietta of England, daughter of Henry IV.”

“She is at the Louvre, as you know.”

“Yes, and I hear in bitter poverty.  Her daughter, during the severest cold, was obliged for want of fire to remain in bed.  Do you grasp that?” said Athos, shrugging his shoulders; “the daughter of Henry IV. shivering for want of a fagot!  Why did she not ask from any one of us a home instead of from Mazarin?  She should have wanted nothing.”

“Have you ever seen the queen of England?” inquired D’Artagnan.

“No; but my mother, as a child, saw her.  Did I ever tell you that my mother was lady of honor to Marie de Medici?”

“Never.  You know, Athos, you never spoke much of such matters.”

“Ah, mon Dieu, yes, you are right,” Athos replied; “but then there must be some occasion for speaking.”

“Porthos wouldn’t have waited for it so patiently,” said D’Artagnan, with a smile.

“Every one according to his nature, my dear D’Artagnan.  Porthos, in spite of a touch of vanity, has many excellent qualities.  Have you seen him?”

“I left him five days ago,” said D’Artagnan, and he portrayed with Gascon wit and sprightliness the magnificence of Porthos in his Chateau of Pierrefonds; nor did he neglect to launch a few arrows of wit at the excellent Monsieur Mouston.

“I sometimes wonder,” replied Athos, smiling at that gayety which recalled the good old days, “that we could form an association of men who would be, after twenty years of separation, still so closely bound together.  Friendship throws out deep roots in honest hearts, D’Artagnan.  Believe me, it is only the evil-minded who deny friendship; they cannot understand it.  And Aramis?”

“I have seen him also,” said D’Artagnan; “but he seemed to me cold.”

“Ah, you have seen Aramis?” said Athos, turning on D’Artagnan a searching look.  “Why, it is a veritable pilgrimage, my dear friend, that you are making to the Temple of Friendship, as the poets would say.”

“Why, yes,” replied D’Artagnan, with embarrassment.

“Aramis, you know,” continued Athos, “is naturally cold, and then he is always involved in intrigues with women.”

“I believe he is at this moment in a very complicated one,” said D’Artagnan.

Athos made no reply.