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And he looked at the young man as if he wanted to read to the very depths of his heart.

“By heaven,” said d’Artagnan, “it seems I was drunker than you were, since I don’t remember anything!”

Athos was not taken in by these words, and went on:

“You have not failed to notice, my dear friend, that each of us has his own sort of drunkenness, sad or gay. As for me, I have a sad drunkenness, and once I’m tipsy, my mania is to tell all sorts of lugubrious stories that my fool of a nurse stuffed into my brain. I have that failing—a capital failing, I agree—but apart from that, I’m an excellent drinker.”

Athos said all this in such a natural way that d’Artagnan was shaken in his conviction.

“Oh, so that’s it,” the young man went on, trying to recover his grip on the truth, “so that’s what I remember, though only as one remembers in a dream—we spoke about hanged men.”

“Ah, there, you see,” said Athos, turning pale and yet trying to laugh, “I was sure of it, hanged men are my personal nightmare.”

“Yes, yes,” d’Artagnan picked up, “now the memory is coming back to me: yes, it had to do…wait a minute…it had to do with a woman.”

“You see,” replied Athos, becoming almost livid, “it’s my great story of the blond woman, and when I tell it, it means I’m dead drunk.”

“Yes, that’s it,” said d’Artagnan, “the story of the blond woman, tall and beautiful, with blue eyes.”

“Yes, and hanged.”

“By her husband, who was a lord of your acquaintance,” d’Artagnan went on, looking fixedly at Athos.

“Well, just see how you can compromise a man when you no longer know what you’re saying,” said Athos, shrugging his shoulders, as if he felt pity for himself. “Decidedly, I shall not get tipsy any more, d’Artagnan, it’s too bad a habit.”

D’Artagnan kept silent.

Then, abruptly changing the conversation, Athos said: “By the way, thank you for the horse you brought me.”

“Is he to your taste?” asked d’Artagnan.

“Yes, but he was never a workhorse.”

“You’re mistaken. I did ten leagues with him in less than an hour and a half, and he looked as if he’d just made a turn around the place Saint-Sulpice.”

“Ah, you’re going to give me regrets.”

“Regrets?”

“Yes, I got rid of him.”

“How so?”

“Here’s how it was: I woke up this morning at six o’clock. You were still sound asleep, and I didn’t know what to do. I was still besotted with our debauch last night. I went down to the main dining room and caught sight of one of our Englishmen, who was bargaining with a horse dealer for a horse, his own having died yesterday of a stroke. I went over to him, and as I saw he was offering a hundred pistoles for a sorrel, I said to him:

“‘By God, my good sir, I also have a horse for sale.’

“‘And a very fine one at that,’ he said, “I saw it yesterday, your friend’s valet was holding it.’

“‘Do you find him worth a hundred pistoles?’

“‘Yes. And would you let me have him for that price?’

“‘No, but I’ll play you for him.’

“‘Play me for him?’

“‘Yes.’

“‘At what?’

“‘At dice.’

“No sooner said than done, and I lost the horse. Ah, but to make up for it,” Athos went on, “I won back the caparison!”

D’Artagnan made a rather glum face.

“Does that upset you?” asked Athos.

“Why, yes, I confess it does,” replied d’Artagnan. “That horse was to make us recognizable one day in battle. It was a pledge, a souvenir. You did wrong, Athos.”

“Eh, my dear friend, put yourself in my place!” the musketeer picked up. “I was dying of boredom. And then, on my honor, I don’t like English horses. Look, if it’s just a matter of being known by someone, well, then the saddle will do by itself—it’s quite remarkable. As for the horse, we’ll find some excuse for his disappearance. Devil take it, horses are mortal! Suppose mine got the glanders or the farcy.”

D’Artagnan did not brighten up.

“It upsets me,” Athos went on, “that you seem so attached to these animals, for I haven’t reached the end of my story.”

“What more have you done?”

“After losing my horse—nine to six, that was the throw—I had the idea of staking yours.”

“Yes, but you