“Ah! that confounds me.  That name, Jupenet, appears to me, nevertheless, a fine name, and quite as worthy of being known as those of MM.  Corneille, or Rotrou, or Garnier.  I hope, monsieur, you will have the goodness to repeat to me a part of your tragedy presently, by way of dessert, for instance.  That will be sugared roast meat, — mordioux! Ah! pardon me, monsieur, that was a little oath which escaped me, because it is a habit with my lord and master.  I sometimes allow myself to usurp that little oath, as it seems in pretty good taste.  I take this liberty only in his absence, please to observe, for you may understand that in his presence — but, in truth, monsieur, this cider is abominable; do you not think so?  And besides, the pot is of such an irregular shape it will not stand on the table.”

“Suppose we were to make it level?”

“To be sure; but with what?”

“With this knife.”

“And the teal, with what shall we cut that up?  Do you not, by chance, mean to touch the teal?”

“Certainly.”

“Well, then — "

“Wait.”

And the poet rummaged in his pocket, and drew out a piece of brass, oblong, quadrangular, about a line in thickness, and an inch and a half in length.  But scarcely had this little piece of brass seen the light, than the poet appeared to have committed an imprudence, and made a movement to put it back again in his pocket.  D’Artagnan perceived this, for he was a man that nothing escaped.  He stretched forth his hand towards the piece of brass:  “Humph! that which you hold in your hand is pretty; will you allow me to look at it?”

“Certainly,” said the poet, who appeared to have yielded too soon to a first impulse.  “Certainly, you may look at it:  but it will be in vain for you to look at it,” added he, with a satisfied air; “if I were not to tell you its use, you would never guess it.”

D’Artagnan had seized as an avowal the hesitation of the poet, and his eagerness to conceal the piece of brass which a first movement had induced him to take out of his pocket.  His attention, therefore, once awakened on this point, he surrounded himself with a circumspection which gave him a superiority on all occasions.  Besides, whatever M. Jupenet might say about it, by a simple inspection of the object, he perfectly well knew what it was.  It was a character in printing.

“Can you guess, now, what this is?” continued the poet.

“No,” said D’Artagnan, “no, ma foi!”

“Well, monsieur,” said M. Jupenet, “this little piece of metal is a printing letter.”

“Bah!”

“A capital.”

“Stop, stop, stop,” said D’Artagnan, opening his eyes very innocently.

“Yes, monsieur, a capital; the first letter of my name.”

“And this is a letter, is it?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Well, I will confess one thing to you.”