“That delightful time, that generous season, that ruling by warm blood, were all very fine things, no doubt:  but I do not regret them at all.  It is absolutely like the period of studies.  I have constantly met with fools who would boast of the days of pensums, ferules, and crusts of dry bread.  It is singular, but I never loved all that; for my part, however active and sober I might be (you know if I was so, Athos), however simple I might appear in my clothes, I would not the less have preferred the braveries and embroideries of Porthos to my little perforated cassock, which gave passage to the wind in winter and the sun in summer.  I should always, my friend, mistrust him who would pretend to prefer evil to good.  Now, in times past all went wrong with me, and every month found a fresh hole in my cassock and in my skin, a gold crown less in my poor purse; of that execrable time of small beer and see-saw, I regret absolutely nothing, nothing, nothing save our friendship; for within me I have a heart, and it is a miracle that heart has not been dried up by the wind of poverty which passed through all the holes of my cloak, or pierced by the swords of all shapes which passed through the holes in my poor flesh.”

“Do not regret our friendship,” said Athos, “that will only die with ourselves.  Friendship is composed, above all things, of memories and habits, and if you have just now made a little satire upon mine, because I hesitate to tell you the nature of my mission into France — "

“Who!  I? — Oh! heavens! if you knew, my dear friend, how indifferent all the missions of the world will henceforth become to me!” And he laid his hand upon the parchment in his vest pocket.

Athos rose from the table and called the host in order to pay the reckoning.

“Since I have known you, my friend,” said D’Artagnan, “I have never discharged the reckoning.  Porthos often did, Aramis sometimes, and you, you almost always drew out your purse with the dessert.  I am now rich, and should like to try if it is heroic to pay.”

“Do so,” said Athos, returning his purse to his pocket.

The two friends then directed their steps towards the port, not, however, without D’Artagnan’s frequently turning round to watch the transportation of his dear crowns.  Night had just spread her thick veil over the yellow waters of the Thames; they heard those noises of casks and pulleys, the preliminaries of preparing to sail which had so many times made the hearts of the musketeers beat when the dangers of the sea were the least of those they were going to face.  This time they were to embark on board a large vessel which awaited them at Gravesend, and Charles II., always delicate in small affairs, had sent one of his yachts, with twelve men of his Scots guard, to do honor to the ambassador he was sending to France.  At midnight the yacht had deposited its passengers on board the vessel, and at eight o’clock in the morning,