an to laugh; then addressing Raoul, who, from the
commencement of this conversation, had sunk into a profound reverie,
"Young man," said he, "I know there is to be found here a certain De
Vouvray wine, and I believe--" Raoul left the room precipitately to
order the wine. In the meantime M. de Beaufort took the hand of Athos.

"What do you mean to do with him?" asked he.

"Nothing at present, monseigneur."

"Ah! yes, I know; since the passion of the king for La Valliere."

"Yes, monseigneur."

"That is all true, then, is it? I think I know her, that little La
Valliere. She is not particularly handsome, if I remember right?"

"No, monseigneur," said Athos.

"Do you know whom she reminds me of?"

"Does she remind your highness of any one?"

"She reminds me of a very agreeable girl, whose mother lived in the
Halles."

"Ah! ah!" said Athos, smiling.

"Oh! the good old times," added M. de Beaufort. "Yes, La Valliere
reminds me of that girl."

"Who had a son, had she not?" [3]

"I believe she had," replied the duke, with careless _naivete_ and a
complaisant forgetfulness, of which no words could translate the tone
and the vocal expression. "Now, here is poor Raoul, who is your son, I
believe."

"Yes, he is my son, monseigneur."

"And the poor lad has been cut out by the king, and he frets."

"Still better, monseigneur, he abstains."

"You are going to let the boy rust in idleness; it is a mistake. Come,
give him to me."

"My wish is to keep him at home, monseigneur. I have no longer anything
in the world but him, and as long as he likes to remain--"

"Well, well," replied the duke. "I could, nevertheless, have soon put
matters to rights again. I assure you, I think he has in him the
stuff of which marechals of France are made; I have seen more than one
produced from less likely rough material."

"That is very possible, monseigneur; but it is the king who makes
marechals of France, and Raoul will never accept anything of the king."

Raoul interrupted this conversation by his return. He preceded Grimaud,
whose still steady hands carried the plateau with one glass and a bottle
of the duke's favorite wine. On seeing his old _protege_, the duke
uttered an exclamation of pleasure.

"Grimaud! Good evening, Grimaud!" said he; "how goes it?"

The servant bowed profoundly, as much gratified as his noble
interlocutor.

"Two old friends!" said the duke, shaking honest Grimaud's shoulder
after a vigorous fas