with a woman whom the cardinal has caused to be shut up, and you wish to get her out of the cardinal’s hands. That’s a game you are playing with his Eminence; this letter is your hand. Why should you show your hand to your adversary? That is never done. If he finds it out, well and good. We are finding out his, aren’t we?”

“In truth, what you say has sense in it, Athos,” said D’Artagnan.

“In that case let there be no more question of what has just occurred, and let Aramis resume the letter from his cousin where the cardinal interrupted him.”

Aramis took the letter from his pocket, the three friends surrounded him, and the three lackeys grouped themselves again near the demijohn.

“You had only read a line or two,” said D’Artagnan, “so begin the letter over again.”

“Willingly,” said Aramis.

My dear Cousin,—I think I shall decide to set out for Béthune, where my sister has placed our little servant in the convent of the Carmelites. This poor child is resigned; she knows she cannot live elsewhere without risking the salvation of her soul. However, if the affairs of our family are settled, as we hope they will be, I believe she will run the risk of being damned, and will return to those whom she misses, particularly as she knows they are always thinking of her. In the meanwhile, she is not altogether wretched; what she most desires is a letter from her intended. I know that such commodities pass with difficulty through the gratings; but after all, as I have proved to you, my dear cousin, I am not unskilled, and I will take charge of the commission. My sister thanks you for your good and eternal remembrance. She underwent for a moment considerable anxiety; but she is now at length a little reassured, having sent her secretary yonder, in order that nothing may happen unexpectedly.

“Farewell, my dear cousin. Let us hear from you as often as possible—that is to say, whenever you can send with safety. I embrace you.

“Marie Michon.”

“Oh, what do I not owe you, Aramis?” cried D’Artagnan. “Dear Constance! I have at length, then, news of her. She lives; she is in safety in a convent; she is at Béthune! Where do you suppose Béthune is, Athos?”

“Why, upon the frontiers of Artois and of Flanders. When the siege is once over we shall be able to make a tour in that direction.”

“And that will not be long, it is to be hoped,” said Porthos; “for this morning they hung a spy who confessed that the Rochellais had come to the leather of their shoes. Supposing that after having eaten the leather they eat the soles, I cannot see what they have left, unless they eat one another.”

“Poor fools!” said Athos, emptying a glass of excellent Bordeaux wine, which, without having at that period the reputation it now enjoys, no less merited it—“poor fools! As if the Catholic religion was not the most agreeable of all religions! All the same,” resumed he, after having smacked his tongue against his palate, “they are brave fellows. But what the devil are you about, Aramis?” continued Athos. “Why, are you squeezing that letter into your pocket!”

“Yes,” said D’Artagnan, “Athos is right; it must be burnt. Who knows whether the cardinal has not a secret for examining ashes?”

“He must have one,” said Athos.

“What are you going to do with the letter, then?” asked Porthos.