u_, and _Les
Quarante-Cinq_. Chicot is supreme, but the personal interest is less
distributed than in the first book and in the _Mousquetaire_ trilogy.

This lack of distribution, and the inequalities of the actual
adventures, are, naturally enough, more noticeable still in the longer
and later series dealing with the eighteenth century, while, almost of
necessity, the purely "romantic" interest is at a lower strength. I can,
however, find very little fault with _Le Chevalier d'Harmental_--an
excellent blend of lightness and excitement. _Olympe de Cleves_ has had
very important partisans;[318] but though I like Olympe herself almost
better than any other of Dumas' heroines, except Marguerite, she does
not seem to me altogether well "backed up"; and there is here, as there
had been in the _Vicomte de Bragelonne_, and was to be in others, too
much insignificant court-intrigue. The Cagliostro cycle again appeals
very strongly to some good critics, and I own that in reading it a
second time I liked it better than I had done before. But I doubt
whether the supernatural of any kind was a circle in which Dumas could
walk with perfect freedom and complete command of his own magic. There
remains, as among the novels selected as pieces, not of conviction, but
of diploma, _Monte Cristo_, perhaps the most popular of all, certainly
one of the most famous, and still holding its popularity with good wits.
Here, again. I have to confess a certain "correction of impression." As
to the _Chateau d'If_, which is practically an independent book, there
can hardly be two opinions among competent and unprejudiced persons. But
I used to find the rest--the voluminous rest--rather heavy reading.
Recently I got on better with them; but I can hardly say that they even
now stand, with me, that supreme test of a novel, "Do you want to read
it again?" I once, as an experiment, read "Wandering Willie's Tale"
through, every night for a week, having read it I don't know how many
times before; and I found it no more staled at the seventh enjoyment
than I should have found the charm of Helen or of Cleopatra herself. I
do not know how many times I have read Scott's longer novels (with one
or two exceptions), or Dickens', or Thackeray's, or not a few others in
French and English, including Dumas himself. And I hope to read them all
once, twice, or as many times more as those other Times which are in
Some One's hand will let me. But I do not want to read _Mont