The drink-deadened eye of Athos flashed out, but only for a moment; it became as dull and vacant as before.
“That’s true,” said he, quietly, “for my part I have never loved.”
“Acknowledge, then, you stony heart,” said d’Artagnan, “that you are wrong to be so hard upon us tender hearts.”
“Tender hearts! Pierced hearts!” said Athos.
“What do you say?”
“I say that love is a lottery in which he who wins, wins death! You are very fortunate to have lost, believe me, my dear d’Artagnan. And if I have any counsel to give, it is, always lose!”
“She seemed to love me so!”
“She seemed , did she?”
“Oh, she did love me!”
“You child, why, there is not a man who has not believed, as you do, that his mistress loved him, and there lives not a man who has not been deceived by his mistress.”
“Except you, Athos, who never had one.”
“That’s true,” said Athos, after a moment’s silence, “that’s true! I never had one! Let us drink!”
“But then, philosopher that you are,” said d’Artagnan, “instruct me, support me. I stand in need of being taught and consoled.”
“Consoled for what?”
“For my misfortune.”