In fact, the door opened, and the mother-superior entered.

“Did you come from Boulogne?” demanded she of milady.

“Yes, I did,” replied she, trying to recover her self-possession. “Who wants me?”

“A man who will not tell his name, but who comes from the cardinal.”

“And wishes to speak with me?” asked milady.

“He wishes to speak to a lady just come from Boulogne.”

“Then let him come in, if you please.”

“Oh, my God, my God! my God!” cried Madame Bonacieux; “can it be any bad news?”

“I am afraid so.”

“I will leave you with this stranger; but as soon as he is gone, if you will permit me, I will return.”

“Certainly! I beg you will.”

The mother-superior and Madame Bonacieux retired.

Milady was left alone, with her eyes fixed on the door. An instant after the jingling of spurs was heard on the stairs, then steps approached, the door opened, and a man appeared.

Milady uttered a cry of joy. This man was the Comte de Rochefort, the cardinal’s personal agent.

“Ah!” cried milady and Rochefort together, “so it is you?”

“Yes, it is.”

“And you come?” asked milady.

“From Rochelle. And you?”

“From England.”

“Buckingham?”

“Dead or desperately wounded, as I was leaving without having succeeded in obtaining anything from him. A fanatic assassinated him.”

“Ah!” said Rochefort, with a smile, “this is a piece of good luck— one that will delight his Eminence! Have you informed him of it?”

“I wrote to him from Boulogne. But what brings you here?”

“His Eminence was uneasy, and sent me to inquire after you.”

“What did the cardinal say with respect to me?”

“I was to take your dispatches, written or verbal, to return posthaste; and when he shall know what you have done, he will think of what you have to do.”

“So I must remain here?”