“And to me but a day,” said Athos. “Imagine the joy I experience, my friend, in seeing you there, in pressing your hand, in casting from me sword and dagger, and tasting without mistrust this glass of sherry. And, oh! what still further joy it would be, if our two friends were there, at the two corners of the table, and Raoul, my beloved Raoul, on the threshold, looking at us with his large eyes, at once so brilliant and so soft!”
“Yes, yes,” said D’Artagnan, much affected, “that is true. I approve particularly of the first part of your thought; it is very pleasant to smile there where we have so legitimately shuddered in thinking that from one moment to another M. Mordaunt might appear upon the landing.”
At this moment the door opened, and D’Artagnan, brave as he was, could not restrain a slight movement of fright. Athos understood him, and, smiling,—
“It is our host,” said he, “bringing me a letter.”
“Yes, my lord,” said the good man; “here is a letter for your honor.”
“Thank you,” said Athos, taking the letter without looking at it. “Tell me, my dear host, if you do not remember this gentleman?”
The old man raised his head, and looked attentively at D’Artagnan.
“No,” said he.
“It is,” said Athos, “one of those friends of whom I have spoken to you, and who lodged here with me eleven years ago.”
“Oh! but,” said the old man, “so many strangers have lodged here!”