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EPILOGUE AUTHOR’S PREFACE In which it is proved that, notwithstanding their names’ ending in _os_ and _is_, the heroes of the story which we are about to have the honor to relate to our readers have nothing mythological about them. A short time ago, while making researches in the Royal Library for my History of Louis XIV., I stumbled by chance upon the Memoi…

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EPILOGUE

AUTHOR’S PREFACE

In which it is proved that, notwithstanding their names’ ending in os
and is, the heroes of the story which we are about to have the honor
to relate to our readers have nothing mythological about them.

A short time ago, while making researches in the Royal Library for my
History of Louis XIV., I stumbled by chance upon the Memoirs of M.
d’Artagnan, printed—as were most of the works of that period, in which
authors could not tell the truth without the risk of a residence, more
or less long, in the Bastille—at Amsterdam, by Pierre Rouge. The title
attracted me; I took them home with me, with the permission of the
guardian, and devoured them.

It is not my intention here to enter into an analysis of this curious
work; and I shall satisfy myself with referring such of my readers as
appreciate the pictures of the period to its pages. They will therein
find portraits penciled by the hand of a master; and although these
squibs may be, for the most part, traced upon the doors of barracks and
the walls of cabarets, they will not find the likenesses of Louis XIII.,
Anne of Austria, Richelieu, Mazarin, and the courtiers of the period,
less faithful than in the history of M. Anquetil.

But, it is well known, what strikes the capricious mind of the poet is
not always what affects the mass of readers. Now, while admiring, as
others doubtless will admire, the details we have to relate, our main
preoccupation concerned a matter to which no one before ourselves had
given a thought.

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