of the fable did with the snail he had despised
the evening before.

"Yes, a base coward," murmured d'Artagnan; "but she--she was very
beautiful."

"What she?" demanded the host.

"Milady," faltered d'Artagnan, and fainted a second time.

"Ah, it's all one," said the host; "I have lost two customers, but this
one remains, of whom I am pretty certain for some days to come. There
will be eleven crowns gained."

It is to be remembered that eleven crowns was just the sum that remained
in d'Artagnan's purse.

The host had reckoned upon eleven days of confinement at a crown a day,
but he had reckoned without his guest. On the following morning at five
o'clock d'Artagnan arose, and descending to the kitchen without help,
asked, among other ingredients the list of which has not come down to
us, for some oil, some wine, and some rosemary, and with his mother's
recipe in his hand composed a balsam, with which he anointed his
numerous wounds, replacing his bandages himself, and positively refusing
the assistance of any doctor, d'Artagnan walked about that same evening,
and was almost cured by the morrow.

But when the time came to pay for his rosemary, this oil, and the wine,
the only expense the master had incurred, as he had preserved a strict
abstinence--while on the contrary, the yellow horse, by the account of
the hostler at least, had eaten three times as much as a horse of his
size could reasonably supposed to have done--d'Artagnan found nothing
in his pocket but his little old velvet purse with the eleven crowns
it contained; for as to the letter addressed to M. de Treville, it had
disappeared.

The young man commenced his search for the letter with the greatest
patience, turning out his pockets of all kinds over and over again,
rummaging and rerummaging in his valise, and opening and reopening his
purse; but when he found that he had come to the conviction that the
letter was not to be found, he flew, for the third time, into such
a rage as was near costing him a fresh consumption of wine, oil, and
rosemary--for upon seeing this hot-headed youth become exasperated and
threaten to destroy everything in the establishment if his letter were
not found, the host seized a spit, his wife a broom handle, and the
servants the same sticks they had used the day before.

"My letter of recommendation!" cried d'Artagnan, "my letter of
recommendation! or, the holy blood, I will spit you all like ortolans!"

Unfortunately,