“My dear friend, if I am, you must not laugh at me for being so. In the country people alter; one gets to like, without knowing it, all those beautiful objects that God causes to spring from the earth, which are despised in cities. I was looking anxiously for some iris roots I planted here, close to this reservoir, and which some one has trampled upon this morning. These gardeners are the most careless people in the world; in bringing the horse out to the water they’ve allowed him to walk over the border.” D’Artagnan began to smile. “Ah! you think so, do you?” And he took his friend along the alley, where a number of tracks like those which had trampled down the flowerbeds, were visible. “Here are the horse’s hoofs again, it seems, Athos,” he said carelessly. “Yes, indeed, the marks are recent.” “Quite so,” replied the lieutenant. “Who went out this morning?” Athos asked, uneasily. “Has any horse got loose?” “Not likely,” answered the Gascon; “these marks are regular.” “Where is Raoul?” asked Athos; “how is it that I have not seen him?” “Hush!” exclaimed D’Artagnan, putting his finger on his lips; and he related what he had seen, watching Athos all the while. “Ah, he’s gone to Blois; the poor boy——” “Wherefore?” “Ah, to inquire after the little La Vallière; she has sprained her foot, you know.” “You think he has?” “I am sure of it,” said Athos; “don’t you see that Raoul is in love?” “Indeed! with whom—with a child seven years old?” “Dear friend, at Raoul’s age the heart is so expansive that it must encircle one object or another, fancied or real. Well, his love is half real, half fanciful. She is the prettiest little creature in the world, with flaxen hair, blue eyes,—at once saucy and languishing.” “But what say you to Raoul’s fancy?” “Nothing—I laugh at Raoul; but this first desire of the heart is imperious. I remember, just at his age, how deep in love I was with a Grecian statue which our good king, then Henry IV., gave my father, insomuch that I was mad with grief when they told me that the story of Pygmalion was nothing but a fable.” “It is mere want of occupation. You do not make Raoul work, so he takes his own way of employing himself.” “Exactly; therefore I think of sending him away from here.” “You will be wise to do so.” “No doubt of it; but it will break his heart. So long as three or four years ago he used to adorn and adore his little idol, whom he will some day fall in love with in right earnest if he remains here. The parents of little La Vallière have for a long time perceived and been amused at it; now they begin to look concerned.” “Nonsense! However, Raoul must be diverted from this fancy. Send him away or you will never make a man of him.” “I think I shall send him to Paris.” “So!” thought D’Artagnan, and it seemed to him that the moment for attack had arrived. “Suppose,” he said, “we roughly chalk out a career for this young man. I wish to consult you about some thing.” “Do so.”