Planchet, you see this is so serious and important that I have not informed my friends that I would entrust this secret to you; and for a captain’s commission I would not write it.”

“Be at rest, sir,” said Planchet; “you shall see whether confidence can be placed in me or not.”

And mounted on an excellent horse, which he was to leave at the end of twenty leagues to take the post, Planchet set off at a gallop.

Bazin set out the next day for Tours, and was allowed a week in which to perform his commission.

On the morning of the eighth day Bazin, fresh as ever and smiling as usual, entered the tavern of the Infidel as the four friends were sitting down to breakfast, saying, as had been agreed upon,

“Monsieur Aramis, here is your cousin’s answer.”Aramis took the letter, which was in a large, coarse hand, and ill-spelt.

“Good gracious!” cried he, laughing, “I really despair of my poor Michon; she will never write like M. de Voiture.”

Aramis read the letter, and passed it to Athos.

“See what she writes to me, Athos,” said he.

Athos cast a glance over the epistle, and, to dissipate all the suspicions that might have been created, read aloud,

“My Cousin,—My sister and I are very skilful in interpreting dreams, and even entertain great fear of them; but of yours it may be said, I hope, every dream is an illusion. Farewell! Take care of yourself, and act so that we may, from time to time, hear you spoken of.

“Marie Michon.”

On the sixteenth day signs of anxiety were so manifest in D’Artagnan and his three friends that they could not remain quiet in one place, and they wandered about like ghosts on the road by which Planchet was expected.

The day, however, passed away, and the evening come on slower than ever, but it came. The taprooms were filled with drinkers. Athos, who had pocketed his share of the diamond, seldom quitted the Infidel. He had found in M. de Busigny—who, by the way, had given them a magnificent dinner—a partner worthy of his company. They were playing together as usual when seven o’clock struck; the patrols were heard passing to double the posts. At half-past seven tattoo was sounded.

“We are lost,” said D’Artagnan in Athos’s ear.

“You mean we have lost,” said Athos quietly, drawing four pistoles from his pocket and flinging them on the table. “Come, gentlemen,” said he, “they are beating the tattoo; to bed, to bed!”

And Athos went out of the Infidel, followed by D’Artagnan. Aramis came behind, giving his arm to Porthos. Aramis mumbled verses, and Porthos from time to time pulled a hair or two from his moustache, as a sign of despair.

But behold! suddenly a shadow appears in the darkness, the outline of which is familiar to D’Artagnan, and a well-known voice says,

“Sir, I have brought your cloak, for it is chilly this evening.”