The stranger, whom D’Artagnan saw for the first time — for
before he had only caught a glimpse of him, — the stranger
had black and brilliant eyes, a yellow complexion, a brow a
little wrinkled by the weight of fifty years, bonhomie in
his features collectively, but some cunning in his look.
“One would say,” thought D’Artagnan, “that this merry fellow
has never exercised more than the upper part of his head,
his eyes, and his brain. He must be a man of science: his
mouth, nose, and chin signify absolutely nothing.”
“Monsieur,” replied the latter, with whose mind and person
we have been making so free, “you do me much honor; not that
I am ever ennuye, for I have,” added he, smiling, “a company
which amuses me always; but never mind that, I am very happy
to receive you.” But when saying this, the man with the worn
boots cast an uneasy look at his table, from which the
oysters had disappeared, and upon which there was nothing
left but a morsel of salt bacon.
“Monsieur,” D’Artagnan hastened to say, “the host is
bringing me up a pretty piece of roasted poultry and a
superb tourteau.” D’Artagnan had read in the look of his
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companion, however rapid it disappeared, the fear of an
attack by a parasite: he divined justly. At this opening,
the features of the man of modest exterior relaxed; and, as
if he had watched the moment for his entrance, as D’Artagnan
spoke, the host appeared, bearing the announced dishes. The
tourteau and the teal were added to the morsel of broiled
bacon; D’Artagnan and his guest bowed, sat down opposite to
each other, and, like two brothers, shared the bacon and the
other dishes.
“Monsieur,” said D’Artagnan, “you must confess that
association is a wonderful thing.”
“How so?” replied the stranger, with his mouth full.
“Well, I will tell you,” replied D’Artagnan.
The stranger gave a short truce to the movement of his jaws,
in order to hear the better.
“In the first place,” continued D’Artagnan, “instead of one
candle, which each of us had, we have two.”
“That is true!” said the stranger, struck with the extreme
lucidity of the observation.
“Then I see that you eat my tourteau in preference, whilst
I, in preference, eat your bacon.”
“That is true again.”
“And then, in addition to being better lighted and eating
what we prefer, I place the pleasure of your company.”
“Truly, monsieur, you are very jovial,” said the unknown,
cheerfully.
“Yes, monsieur; jovial, as all people are who carry nothing
on their minds, or, for that matter, in their heads. Oh! I
can see it is quite another sort of thing with you,”
continued D’Artagnan; “I can read in your eyes all sorts of
genius.”
“Oh, monsieur!”
“Come, confess one thing.”
“What is that?”
“That you are a learned man.”
“Ma foi! monsieur.”
“Hein?”
“Almost.”
“Come, then!”
“I am an author.”
“There!” cried D’Artagnan, clapping his hands, “I knew I
could not be deceived! It is a miracle!”
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“Monsieur —- ”
“What, shall I have the honor of passing the evening in the
society of an author, of a celebrated author perhaps?”
“Oh!” said the unknown, blushing, “celebrated, monsieur,
celebrated is not the word.”
“Modest!” cried D’Artagnan, transported, “he is modest!”
Then, turning towards the stranger, with a character of
blunt bonhomie: “But tell me at least the name of your
works, monsieur; for you will please to observe you have not
told me your name, and I have been forced to divine your
genius.”
“My name is Jupenet, monsieur,” said the author.
“A fine name! a grand name! upon my honor; and I do not know
why — pardon me the mistake, if it be one — but surely I
have heard that name somewhere.”
“I have made verses,” said the poet modestly.
“Ah! that is it, then, I have heard them read.”
“A tragedy.”
“I must have seen it played.”
The poet blushed again, and said: “I do not think that can
be the case, for my verses have never been printed.”
“Well, then, it must have been the tragedy which informed me