Although d’Artagnan did not at all know the queen, he soon distinguished her voice from the others, at first by a slightly foreign accent, and next by that tone of domination naturally impressed upon all royal words.  He heard her approach and withdraw from the partially open door; and twice or three times he even saw the shadow of a person intercept the light.

At length a hand and an arm, surpassingly beautiful in their form and whiteness, glided through the tapestry.  D’Artagnan at once comprehended that this was his recompense.  He cast himself on his knees, seized the hand, and touched it respectfully with his lips.  Then the hand was withdrawn, leaving in his an object which he perceived to be a ring.  The door immediately closed, and d’Artagnan found himself again in complete obscurity.

D’Artagnan placed the ring on his finger, and again waited; it was evident that all was not yet over.  After the reward of his devotion, that of his love was to come.  Besides, although the ballet was danced, the evening had scarcely begun.  Supper was to be served at three, and the clock of St. Jean had struck three quarters past two.

The sound of voices diminished by degrees in the adjoining chamber.  The company was then heard departing; then the door of the closet in which d’Artagnan was, was opened, and Mme. Bonacieux entered.

“You at last?” cried d’Artagnan.

“Silence!” said the young woman, placing her hand upon his lips; “silence, and go the same way you came!”

“But where and when shall I see you again?” cried d’Artagnan.

“A note which you will find at home will tell you.  Begone, begone!”

At these words she opened the door of the corridor, and pushed d’Artagnan out of the room.  D’Artagnan obeyed like a child, without the least resistance or objection, which proved that he was really in love.

23 The rendezvous

D’Artagnan ran home immediately, and although it was three o’clock in the morning and he had some of the worst quarters of Paris to traverse, he met with no misadventure.  Everyone knows that drunkards and lovers have a protecting deity.

He found the door of his passage open, sprang up the stairs and knocked softly in a manner agreed upon between him and his lackey.  Planchet*, whom he had sent home two hours before from the Hotel de Ville, telling him to sit up for him, opened the door for him.

The reader may ask, “How came Planchet here?” when he was left “stiff as a rush” in London.  In the intervening time Buckingham perhaps sent him to Paris, as he did the horses.

“Has anyone brought a letter for me?” asked d’Artagnan, eagerly.

“No one has brought a letter, monsieur,” replied Planchet; “but one has come of itself.”

“What do you mean, blockhead?”

“I mean to say that when I came in, although I had the key of your apartment in my pocket, and that key had never quit me, I found a letter on the green table cover in your bedroom.”