London he will put it out of her power to injure us. I will write to him, then, nearly in these terms.”

“Let us see,” said Athos, assuming in advance a critical look.

“Monsieur and dear friend — ”

“Ah, yes! Dear friend to an Englishman,” interrupted Athos; “well commenced! Bravo, d’Artagnan! Only with that word you would be quartered instead of being broken on the wheel.”

“Well, perhaps. I will say, then, Monsieur, quite short.”

“You may even say, My Lord,” replied Athos, who stickled for propriety.

“My Lord, do you remember the little goat pasture of the Luxembourg?”