“And now,” said Athos, “while they bring the wine, tell me, D’Artagnan, what has become of the others, come!” D’Artagnan related how he had found Porthos in bed with a strained knee, and Aramis at a table between two theologians. As he finished, the host entered with the wine ordered and a ham which, fortunately for him, had been left out of the cellar. “That’s well!” said Athos, filling his glass and that of his friend; “here’s to Porthos and Aramis! But you, D’Artagnan, what is the matter with you, and what has happened to you personally? You have a sad air.” “Alas,” said D’Artagnan, “it is because I am the most unfortunate.” “Tell me.” “Presently,” said D’Artagnan. “Presently! And why presently? Because you think I am drunk? D’Artagnan, remember this! My ideas are never so clear as when I have had plenty of wine. Speak, then, I am all ears.” D’Artagnan related his adventure with Mme. Bonacieux. Athos listened to him without a frown; and when he had finished, said, “Trifles, only trifles!” That was his favorite word. “You always say _trifles_, my dear Athos!” said D’Artagnan, “and that comes very ill from you, who have never loved.” The drink-deadened eye of Athos flashed out, but only for a moment; it became as dull and vacant as before. “That’s true,” said he, quietly, “for my part I have never loved.” “Acknowledge, then, you stony heart,” said D’Artagnan, “that you are wrong to be so hard upon us tender hearts.” “Tender hearts! Pierced hearts!” said Athos. “What do you say?” “I say that love is a lottery in which he who wins, wins death! You are very fortunate to have lost, believe me, my dear D’Artagnan. And if I have any counsel to give, it is, always lose!” “She seemed to love me so!” “She _seemed_, did she?” “Oh, she _did_ love me!” “You child, why, there is not a man who has not believed, as you do, that his mistress loved him, and there lives not a man who has not been deceived by his mistress.” “Except you, Athos, who never had one.” “That’s true,” said Athos, after a moment’s silence, “that’s true! I never had one! Let us drink!” “But then, philosopher that you are,” said D’Artagnan, “instruct me, support me. I stand in need of being taught and consoled.” “Consoled for what?” “For my misfortune.” “Your misfortune is laughable,” said Athos, shrugging his shoulders; “I should like to know what you would say if I were to relate to you a real tale of love!” “Which has happened to you?” “Or one of my friends, what matters?” “Tell it, Athos, tell it.” “Better if I drink.” “Drink and relate, then.” “Not a bad idea!” said Athos, emptying and refilling his glass. “The two things agree marvelously well.” “I am all attention,” said D’Artagnan.