“What letter?” cried Aramis eagerly.

“A letter which was sent to your rooms in your absence, and which was given to me for you.”

“But whom is that letter from?”

“Oh, from some tearful waiting-maid, some despairing grisette; from Madame de Chevreuse’s chambermaid, perhaps, who must have been obliged to return to Tours with her mistress, and who, in order to make herself attractive, stole some perfumed paper, and sealed her letter with a duchess’s coronet.”

“What are you saying?”

“There! I really think I must have lost it,” said the young man mischievously, while pretending to search for it. “But fortunately the world is a sepulchre; men, and consequently women also, are only shadows, and love is a sentiment upon which you cry, ‘Fie, fie!”’

“DArtagnan! D’Artagnan!” cried Aramis, “you are killing me!”

“At last, here it is!” said D’Artagnan. He drew the letter from his pocket.

Aramis sprang towards him, seized the letter, read it, or rather devoured it, his countenance absolutely beaming with delight.

“Your waiting-maid seems to have an agreeable style,” said the carrier carelessly.

“Thanks, D’Artagnan, thanks!” cried Aramis, almost in a stare of delirium. “She was forced to return to Tours; she is not faithless; she still loves me! Come, dear friend, come, let me embrace you; happiness stifles me!” And the two friends began to dance round.

At that moment Bazin entered.

“Be off, you scoundrel!” cried Aramis. “Order a larded hare, a fat capon, a leg of mutton with garlic, and four bottles of old Burgundy! ’Sdeath! let us drink while the wine is fresh. Let us drink heartily, and tell me something about what is going on in the world yonder.”