“And where is that letter?”

“I left it where I found it, monsieur.  It is not natural for letters to enter people’s houses in this manner.  If the window had been open or even ajar, I should think nothing of it; but, no—­all was hermetically sealed.  Beware, monsieur; there is certainly some magic underneath.”

Meanwhile, the young man had darted in to his chamber, and opened the letter.  It was from Mme. Bonacieux, and was expressed in these terms: 

“There are many thanks to be offered to you, and to be transmitted to you.  Be this evening about ten o’clock at St. Cloud, in front of the pavilion which stands at the corner of the house of M. d’Estrees.—­C.B.”

While reading this letter, d’Artagnan felt his heart dilated and compressed by that delicious spasm which tortures and caresses the hearts of lovers.

It was the first billet he had received; it was the first rendezvous that had been granted him.  His heart, swelled by the intoxication of joy, felt ready to dissolve away at the very gate of that terrestrial paradise called Love!

“Well, monsieur,” said Planchet, who had observed his master grow red and pale successively, “did I not guess truly?  Is it not some bad affair?”

“You are mistaken, Planchet,” replied d’Artagnan; “and as a proof, there is a crown to drink my health.”

“I am much obliged to Monsieur for the crown he had given me, and I promise him to follow his instructions exactly; but it is not the less true that letters which come in this way into shut-up houses—­”

“Fall from heaven, my friend, fall from heaven.”

“Then Monsieur is satisfied?” asked Planchet.

“My dear Planchet, I am the happiest of men!”

“And I may profit by Monsieur’s happiness, and go to bed?”

“Yes, go.”

“May the blessings of heaven fall upon Monsieur!  But it is not the less true that that letter—­”

And Planchet retired, shaking his head with an air of doubt, which the liberality of d’Artagnan had not entirely effaced.

Left alone, d’Artagnan read and reread his billet.  Then he kissed and rekissed twenty times the lines traced by the hand of his beautiful mistress.  At length he went to bed, fell asleep, and had golden dreams.

At seven o’clock in the morning he arose and called Planchet, who at the second summons opened the door, his countenance not yet quite freed from the anxiety of the preceding night.

“Planchet,” said d’Artagnan, “I am going out for all day, perhaps.  You are, therefore, your own master till seven o’clock in the evening; but at seven o’clock you must hold yourself in readiness with two horses.”

“There!” said Planchet.  “We are going again, it appears, to have our hides pierced in all sorts of ways.”

“You will take your musketoon and your pistols.”

“There, now!  Didn’t I say so?” cried Planchet.  “I was sure of it—­the cursed letter!”