“Embrace, with all your heart, the vicomte, for your devoted, friend,

“Athos.”

“I believe, by Heaven,” said D’Artagnan, “that I shall embrace him, since he’s upon our road; and if he is so unfortunate as to lose our dear Athos, from that very day he becomes my son.”

“And I,” said Porthos, “shall make him my sole heir.”

“Let us see, what more does Athos say?”

“Should you meet on your journey a certain Monsieur Mordaunt, distrust him, in a letter I cannot say more.”

“Monsieur Mordaunt!” exclaimed the Gascon, surprised.

“Monsieur Mordaunt! ’tis well,” said Porthos, “we shall remember that; but see, there is a postscript from Aramis.”

“So there is,” said D’Artagnan, and he read: 

“We conceal the place where we are, dear friends, knowing your brotherly affection and that you would come and die with us were we to reveal it.”

“Confound it,” interrupted Porthos, with an explosion of passion which sent Mousqueton to the other end of the room; “are they in danger of dying?”

D’Artagnan continued: 

“Athos bequeaths to you Raoul, and I bequeath to you my revenge.  If by any good luck you lay your hand on a certain man named Mordaunt, tell Porthos to take him into a corner and to wring his neck.  I dare not say more in a letter.

“Aramis.

“If that is all, it is easily done,” said Porthos.

“On the contrary,” observed D’Artagnan, with a vexed look; “it would be impossible.”

“How so?”

“It is precisely this Monsieur Mordaunt whom we are going to join at Boulogne and with whom we cross to England.”

“Well, suppose instead of joining this Monsieur Mordaunt we were to go and join our friends?” said Porthos, with a gesture fierce enough to have frightened an army.

“I did think of it, but this letter has neither date nor postmark.”

“True,” said Porthos.  And he began to wander about the room like a man beside himself, gesticulating and half drawing his sword out of the scabbard.

As to D’Artagnan, he remained standing like a man in consternation, with the deepest affliction depicted on his face.

“Ah, this is not right; Athos insults us; he wishes to die alone; it is bad, bad, bad.”

Mousqueton, witnessing this despair, melted into tears in a corner of the room.

“Come,” said D’Artagnan, “all this leads to nothing.  Let us go on.  We will embrace Raoul, and perhaps he will have news of Athos.”

“Stop —­ an idea!” cried Porthos; “indeed, my dear D’Artagnan, I don’t know how you manage, but you are always full of ideas; let us go and embrace Raoul.”

“Woe to that man who should happen to contradict my master at this moment,” said Mousqueton to himself; “I wouldn’t give a farthing for his life.”

They set out.  On arriving at the Rue Saint Denis, the friends found a vast concourse of people.  It was the Duc de Beaufort, who was coming from the Vendomois and whom the coadjutor was showing to the Parisians, intoxicated with joy.  With the duke’s aid they already considered themselves invincible.