The Rendezvous
D’Artagnan ran home immediately， and although it was after three o’clock in the morning， and he had the worst quarters of Paris to pass through， he met with no misadventure.
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 City Hall， desiring him to sit up for him， came and opened the door.
“Has any one brought a letter for me？” asked D’Artagnan eagerly.
“No one has brought a letter， sir，” replied Planchet； “but there is one come of itself.”
“What do you mean by that， you stupid fellow？”
“I mean that when I came in， although I had the key of your apartment in my pocket and that key had never been out of my possession， I found a letter on the green table-cover in your bedroom.”
“And where is that letter？”
“I left it where I found it， sir.”
In the meantime the young man darted into his chamber and was opening the letter. It was from Madame Bonacieux， and was conceived in these terms：
“Warm thanks are to be offered to you， and to be transmitted to you. Be at St. Cloud this evening about ten o’clock， in front of the pavilion at the corner of M. d’Estrées’s h？tel.—C.B.”
While reading this letter D’Artagnan felt his heart expand and close with that delicious spasm that tortures and caresses the hearts of lovers.
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 free 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.”
He took his way toward M. de Tréville’s h？tel. His visit the day before， we remember， had been very short， with little chances for confidential talk.
He found M. de Tréville in a most joyful mood. The king and queen had been charming to him at the ball. The cardinal， however， had been particularly ill-tempered； he had retired at one o’clock under the pretence of being indisposed. Their Majesties did not return to the Louvre till six o’clock.
“Now，” said M. de Tréville， lowering his voice and looking round at every corner of the apartment to see whether they were alone—“now let us talk about yourself， my young friend； for it is evident that your fortunate return has something to do with the king’s joy， the queen’s triumph， and the cardinal’s humiliation. You must look out for yourself.”
“What have I to fear，” replied D’Artagnan， “so long as I have the good fortune to enjoy their Majesties’ favour？”
“Everything， believe me. But， by the way，” resumed M. de Tréville， “what has become of your three companions？”
“I was about to ask you if you had heard no news of them.”
“None whatever， sir.”
Well， I left them on my road—Porthos at Chantilly， with a duel on his hands； Aramis at Crèvec？ur， with a ball in his shoulder； and Athos at Amiens， detained by an accusation of counterfeiting.”
“See there， now！” said M. de Tréville. “And how the devil did you escape？”
“By a miracle， sir， I must acknowledge， with a sword-thrust in my breast， and by nailing Comte de Wardes， on the road to Calais， like a butterfly on a tapestry.”
“There again！ De Wardes， one of the cardinal’s men， a cousin of Rochefort’s！ But stop， my friend， I have an idea.”
“Speak， sir.”
“In your place， I would do one thing.”
“What， sir？”
“While his Eminence was seeking for me in Paris， I should take， without sound of drum or trumpet， the road to Picardy， and should go and make some enquiries concerning my three companions. What the devil！ they richly merit that piece of attention on your part.”
“Your advice is good， sir， and to-morrow I will set out.”
“To-morrow！ And why not this evening？”
“This evening， sir， I am detained in Paris by urgent business.”
“Ah， young man， young man！ Some love affair. Take care， I repeat to you， take care！ Women was the ruin of us all， is the ruin of us all， and will be the ruin of us all， as long as the world stands. Take my advice and set out this evening.”
“It is impossible， sir.”
“You have given your word， then？”
“Yes， sir.”
“Ah， that’s quite another thing. But promise me， if you should not happen to be killed to-night， that you will go to-morrow.”
“I promise you， sir.”
“Do you want money？”
“I still have fifty pistoles. That， I think， is as much as I shall need.”
“But your companions？”
“I don’t think they can be in need of any. We left Paris each with seventy-five pistoles in his pocket.”
“Shall I see you again before your departure？”
“I think not， sir， unless something new happens.”
“Well， a pleasant journey to you， then.”
“Thank you， sir.”
And D’Artagnan left M. de Tréville， touched more than ever by his paternal solicitude for his musketeers.
He called successively at the abodes of Athos， Porthos， and Aramis. None of them had returned. Their lackeys likewise were absent， and nothing had been heard of either masters or servants.
He would have inquired after them of their mistresses， but he was not acquainted with Porthos’s or Aramis’s， and Athos had none.
D’Artagnan， being at bottom a prudent youth， instead of returning home， went and dined with the Gascon priest， who， at the time of the four friends’ poverty， had given them a breakfast of chocolate.
