Athos smiled with one of his sweet and expressive smiles.

“Friend,” said he, “for Athos this is too much; for the Comte de la Fere it is too little.  Keep the commission; it is yours.  Alas! you have purchased it dearly enough.”

D’Artagnan left Athos’s chamber and went to that of Porthos.  He found him clothed in a magnificent dress covered with splendid embroidery, admiring himself before a glass.

“Ah, ah! is that you, dear friend?” exclaimed Porthos.  “How do you think these garments fit me?”

“Wonderfully,” said d’Artagnan; but I come to offer you a dress which will become you still better.”

“What?” asked Porthos.

“That of a lieutenant of Musketeers.”

D’Artagnan related to Porthos the substance of his interview with the cardinal, and said, taking the commission from his pocket, “Here, my friend, write your name upon it and become my chief.”

Porthos cast his eyes over the commission and returned it to d’Artagnan, to the great astonishment of the young man.

“Yes,” said he, “yes, that would flatter me very much; but I should not have time enough to enjoy the distinction.  During our expedition to Bethune the husband of my duchess died; so, my dear, the coffer of the defunct holding out its arms to me, I shall marry the widow.  Look here!  I was trying on my wedding suit.  Keep the lieutenancy, my dear, keep it.”

The young man then entered the apartment of Aramis.  He found him kneeling before a PRIEDIEU with his head leaning on an open prayer book.

He described to him his interview with the cardinal, and said, for the third time drawing his commission from his pocket, “You, our friend, our intelligence, our invisible protector, accept this commission.  You have merited it more than any of us by your wisdom and your counsels, always followed by such happy results.”

“Alas, dear friend!” said Aramis, “our late adventures have disgusted me with military life.  This time my determination is irrevocably taken.  After the siege I shall enter the house of the Lazarists.  Keep the commission, d’Artagnan; the profession of arms suits you.  You will be a brave and adventurous captain.”

D’Artagnan, his eye moist with gratitude though beaming with joy, went back to Athos, whom he found still at table contemplating the charms of his last glass of Malaga by the light of his lamp.

“Well,” said he, “they likewise have refused me.”

“That, dear friend, is because nobody is more worthy than yourself.”

He took a quill, wrote the name of d’Artagnan in the commission, and returned it to him.

“I shall then have no more friends,” said the young man.  “Alas! nothing but bitter recollections.”

And he let his head sink upon his hands, while two large tears rolled down his cheeks.

“You are young,” replied Athos; “and your bitter recollections have time to change themselves into sweet remembrances.”