They entered the large apartment, formerly the common one. The tavern, in general, and this room in particular, had undergone great changes; the ancient host of the musketeers, having become tolerably rich for an innkeeper, had closed his shop, and made of this room of which we were speaking, a store-room for colonial provisions. As for the rest of the house, he let it ready furnished to strangers. It was with unspeakable emotion D’Artagnan recognized all the furniture of the chamber of the first story; the wainscoting, the tapestries, and even that geographical chart which Porthos had so fondly studied in his moments of leisure. “It is eleven years ago,” cried D’Artagnan. “Mordioux! it appears to me a century!” “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 tables, 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!” “But we lodged here on the 30th of January, 1649,” added Athos, believing he should stimulate the lazy memory of the host by this remark. “That is very possible,” replied he, smiling; “but it is so long ago!” and he bowed, and went out. “Thank you,” said D’Artagnan—“perform exploits, accomplish revolutions, endeavor to engrave your name in stone or bronze with strong swords! there is something more rebellious, more hard, more forgetful than iron, bronze, or stone, and that is, the brain of a lodging-house keeper who has grown rich in the trade,—he does not know me! Well, I should have known him, though.” Athos, smiling at his friend’s philosophy, unsealed his letter. “Ah!” said he, “a letter from Parry.” “Oh! oh!” said D’Artagnan; “read it, my friend, read it! No doubt it contains news.” Athos shook his head, and read: