Twenty Years After - 32

where the devil do you discover all the notions you put into practice?”
D’Artagnan smiled. The two friends turned down the first street they
came to. Porthos knocked at the door of a house to the right, whilst
D’Artagnan knocked at the door of a house to the left.
“Some straw,” they said.
“Sir, we don’t keep any,” was the reply of the people who opened the
doors; “but please ask at the hay dealer’s.”
“Where is the hay dealer’s?”
“At the last large door in the street.”
“Are there any other people in Saint Germain who sell straw?”
“Yes; there’s the landlord of the Lamb, and Gros-Louis the farmer; they
both live in the Rue des Ursulines.”
“Very well.”
D’Artagnan went instantly to the hay dealer and bargained with him for
a hundred and fifty trusses of straw, which he obtained, at the rate of
three pistoles each. He went afterward to the innkeeper and bought from
him two hundred trusses at the same price. Finally, Farmer Louis sold
them eighty trusses, making in all four hundred and thirty.
There was no more to be had in Saint Germain. This foraging did not
occupy more than half an hour. Mousqueton, duly instructed, was put at
the head of this sudden and new business. He was cautioned not to let a
bit of straw out of his hands under a louis the truss, and they
intrusted to him straw to the amount of four hundred and thirty louis.
D’Artagnan, taking with him three trusses of straw, returned to the
chateau, where everybody, freezing with cold and more than half asleep,
envied the king, the queen, and the Duke of Orleans, on their camp
beds. The lieutenant’s entrance produced a burst of laughter in the
great drawing-room; but he did not appear to notice that he was the
object of general attention, but began to arrange, with so much
cleverness, nicety and gayety, his straw bed, that the mouths of all
these poor creatures, who could not go to sleep, began to water.
“Straw!” they all cried out, “straw! where is there any to be found?”
“I can show you,” answered the Gascon.
And he conducted them to Mousqueton, who freely distributed the trusses
at the rate of a louis apiece. It was thought rather dear, but people
wanted to sleep, and who would not give even two or three louis for a
few hours of sound sleep?
D’Artagnan gave up his bed to any one who wanted it, making it over
about a dozen times; and since he was supposed to have paid, like the
others, a louis for his truss of straw, he pocketed in that way thirty
louis in less than half an hour. At five o’clock in the morning the
straw was worth eighty francs a truss and there was no more to be had.
D’Artagnan had taken the precaution to set apart four trusses for his
own use. He put in his pocket the key of the room where he had hidden
them, and accompanied by Porthos returned to settle with Mousqueton,
who, naively, and like the worthy steward that he was, handed them four
hundred and thirty louis and kept one hundred for himself.
Mousqueton, who knew nothing of what was going on in the chateau,
wondered that the idea had not occurred to him sooner. D’Artagnan put
the gold in his hat, and in going back to the chateau settled the
reckoning with Porthos, each of them had cleared two hundred and
fifteen louis.
Porthos, however, found that he had no straw left for himself. He
returned to Mousqueton, but the steward had sold the last wisp. He then
repaired to D’Artagnan, who, thanks to his four trusses of straw, was
in the act of making up and tasting, by anticipation, the luxury of a
bed so soft, so well stuffed at the head, so well covered at the foot,
that it would have excited the envy of the king himself, if his majesty
had not been fast asleep in his own. D’Artagnan could on no account
consent to pull his bed to pieces again for Porthos, but for a
consideration of four louis that the latter paid him for it, he
consented that Porthos should share his couch with him. He laid his
sword at the head, his pistols by his side, stretched his cloak over
his feet, placed his felt hat on the top of his cloak and extended
himself luxuriously on the straw, which rustled under him. He was
already enjoying the sweet dream engendered by the possession of two
hundred and nineteen louis, made in a quarter of an hour, when a voice
was heard at the door of the hall, which made him stir.
“Monsieur d’Artagnan!” it cried.
“Here!” cried Porthos, “here!”
Porthos foresaw that if D’Artagnan was called away he should remain the
sole possessor of the bed. An officer approached.
“I am come to fetch you, Monsieur d’Artagnan.”
“From whom?”
“His eminence sent me.”
“Tell my lord that I’m going to sleep, and I advise him, as a friend,
to do the same.”
“His eminence is not gone to bed and will not go to bed, and wants you
instantly.”
“The devil take Mazarin, who does not know when to sleep at the proper
time. What does he want with me? Is it to make me a captain? In that
case I will forgive him.”
And the musketeer rose, grumbling, took his sword, hat, pistols, and
cloak, and followed the officer, whilst Porthos, alone and sole
possessor of the bed, endeavored to follow the good example of falling
asleep, which his predecessor had set him.
“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said the cardinal, on perceiving him, “I have
not forgotten with what zeal you have served me. I am going to prove to
you that I have not.”
“Good,” thought the Gascon, “this is a promising beginning.”
“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” he resumed, “do you wish to become a captain?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And your friend still longs to be made a baron?”
“At this very moment, my lord, he no doubt dreams that he is one
already.”
“Then,” said Mazarin, taking from his portfolio the letter which he had
already shown D’Artagnan, “take this dispatch and carry it to England.”
D’Artagnan looked at the envelope; there was no address on it.
“Am I not to know to whom to present it?”
“You will know when you reach London; at London you may tear off the
outer envelope.”
“And what are my instructions?”
“To obey in every particular the man to whom this letter is addressed.
You must set out for Boulogne. At the Royal Arms of England you will
find a young gentleman named Mordaunt.”
“Yes, my lord; and what am I to do with this young gentleman?”
“Follow wherever he leads you.”
D’Artagnan looked at the cardinal with a stupefied air.
“There are your instructions,” said Mazarin; “go!”
“Go! ’tis easy to say so, but that requires money, and I haven’t any.”
“Ah!” replied Mazarin, “so you have no money?”
“None, my lord.”
“But the diamond I gave you yesterday?”
“I wish to keep it in remembrance of your eminence.”
Mazarin sighed.
“’Tis very dear living in England, my lord, especially as envoy
extraordinary.”
“Zounds!” replied Mazarin, “the people there are very sedate, and their
habits, since the revolution, simple; but no matter.”
He opened a drawer and took out a purse.
“What do you say to a thousand crowns?”
D’Artagnan pouted out his lower lip in a most extraordinary manner.
“I reply, my lord, ’tis but little, as certainly I shall not go alone.”
“I suppose not. Monsieur du Vallon, that worthy gentleman, for, with
the exception of yourself, Monsieur d’Artagnan, there’s not a man in
France that I esteem and love so much as him——”
“Then, my lord,” replied D’Artagnan, pointing to the purse which
Mazarin still held, “if you love and esteem him so much, you—understand
me?”
“Be it so! on his account I add two hundred crowns.”
“Scoundrel!” muttered D’Artagnan. “But on our return,” he said aloud,
“may we, that is, my friend and I, depend on having, he his barony, and
I my promotion?”
“On the honor of Mazarin.”
“I should like another sort of oath better,” said D’Artagnan to
himself; then aloud, “May I not offer my duty to her majesty the
queen?”
“Her majesty is asleep and you must set off directly,” replied Mazarin;
“go, pray, sir——”
“One word more, my lord; if there’s any fighting where I’m going, must
I fight?”
“You are to obey the commands of the personage to whom I have addressed
the inclosed letter.”
“’Tis well,” said D’Artagnan, holding out his hand to receive the
money. “I offer my best respects and services to you, my lord.”
D’Artagnan then, returning to the officer, said:
“Sir, have the kindness also to awaken Monsieur du Vallon and to say
’tis by his eminence’s order, and that I shall await him at the
stables.”
The officer went off with an eagerness that showed the Gascon that he
had some personal interest in the matter.
Porthos was snoring most musically when some one touched him on the
shoulder.
“I come from the cardinal,” said the officer.
“Heigho!” said Porthos, opening his large eyes; “what have you got to
say?”
“That his eminence has ordered you to England and that Monsieur
d’Artagnan is waiting for you in the stables.”
Porthos sighed heavily, arose, took his hat, his pistols, and his
cloak, and departed, casting a look of regret upon the couch where he
had hoped to sleep so well.
No sooner had he turned his back than the officer laid himself down in
it, and he had scarcely crossed the threshold before his successor, in
his turn, was snoring immoderately. It was very natural, he being the
only person in the whole assemblage, except the king, the queen, and
the Duke of Orleans, who slept gratuitously.


Chapter LIV.
In which we hear Tidings of Aramis.

D’Artagnan went straight to the stables; day was just dawning. He found
his horse and that of Porthos fastened to the manger, but to an empty
manger. He took pity on these poor animals and went to a corner of the
stable, where he saw a little straw, but in doing so he struck his foot
against a human body, which uttered a cry and arose on its knees,
rubbing its eyes. It was Mousqueton, who, having no straw to lie upon,
had helped himself to that of the horses.
“Mousqueton,” cried D’Artagnan, “let us be off! Let us set off.”
Mousqueton, recognizing the voice of his master’s friend, got up
suddenly, and in doing so let fall some louis which he had appropriated
to himself illegally during the night.
“Ho! ho!” exclaimed D’Artagnan, picking up a louis and displaying it;
“here’s a louis that smells confoundedly of straw.”
Mousqueton blushed so confusedly that the Gascon began to laugh at him
and said:
“Porthos would be angry, my dear Monsieur Mousqueton, but I pardon you,
only let us remember that this gold must serve us as a joke, so be
gay—come along.”
Mousqueton instantly assumed a jovial countenance, saddled the horses
quickly and mounted his own without making faces over it.
Whilst this went on, Porthos arrived with a very cross look on his
face, and was astonished to find the lieutenant resigned and Mousqueton
almost merry.
“Ah, that’s it!” he cried, “you have your promotion and I my barony.”
“We are going to fetch our brevets,” said D’Artagnan, “and when we come
back, Master Mazarin will sign them.”
“And where are we going?” asked Porthos.
“To Paris first; I have affairs to settle.”
And they both set out for Paris.
On arriving at its gates they were astounded to see the threatening
aspect of the capital. Around a broken-down carriage the people were
uttering imprecations, whilst the persons who had attempted to escape
were made prisoners—that is to say, an old man and two women. On the
other hand, as the two friends approached to enter, they showed them
every kind of civility, thinking them deserters from the royal party
and wishing to bind them to their own.
“What is the king doing?” they asked.
“He is asleep.”
“And the Spanish woman?”
“Dreaming.”
“And the cursed Italian?”
“He is awake, so keep on the watch, as they are gone away; it’s for
some purpose, rely on it. But as you are the strongest, after all,”
continued D’Artagnan, “don’t be furious with old men and women, and
keep your wrath for more appropriate occasions.”
The people listened to these words and let go the ladies, who thanked
D’Artagnan with an eloquent look.
“Now! onward!” cried the Gascon.
And they continued their way, crossing the barricades, getting the
chains about their legs, pushed about, questioning and questioned.
In the place of the Palais Royal D’Artagnan saw a sergeant, who was
drilling six or seven hundred citizens. It was Planchet, who brought
into play profitably the recollections of the regiment of Piedmont.
In passing before D’Artagnan he recognized his former master.
“Good-day, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said Planchet proudly.
“Good-day, Monsieur Dulaurier,” replied D’Artagnan.
Planchet stopped short, staring at D’Artagnan. The first row, seeing
their sergeant stop, stopped in their turn, and so on to the very last.
“These citizens are dreadfully ridiculous,” observed D’Artagnan to
Porthos and went on his way.
Five minutes afterward he entered the hotel of La Chevrette, where
pretty Madeleine, the hostess, came to him.
“My dear Mistress Turquaine,” said the Gascon, “if you happen to have
any money, lock it up quickly; if you happen to have any jewels, hide
them directly; if you happen to have any debtors, make them pay you, or
any creditors, don’t pay them.”
“Why, prithee?” asked Madeleine.
“Because Paris is going to be reduced to dust and ashes like Babylon,
of which you have no doubt heard tell.”
“And are you going to leave me at such a time?”
“This very instant.”
“And where are you going?”
“Ah, if you could tell me that, you would be doing me a service.”
“Ah, me! ah, me!
“Have you any letters for me?” inquired D’Artagnan, wishing to signify
to the hostess that her lamentations were superfluous and that
therefore she had better spare him demonstrations of her grief.
“There’s one just arrived,” and she handed the letter to D’Artagnan.
“From Athos!” cried D’Artagnan, recognizing the handwriting.
“Ah!” said Porthos, “let us hear what he says.”
D’Artagnan opened the letter and read as follows:
“Dear D’Artagnan, dear Du Vallon, my good friends, perhaps this may be
the last time that you will ever hear from me. Aramis and I are very
unhappy; but God, our courage, and the remembrance of our friendship
sustain us. Think often of Raoul. I intrust to you certain papers which
are at Blois; and in two months and a half, if you do not hear of us,
take possession of them.
“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.
The two friends turned off into a side street to avoid meeting the
prince, and so reached the Saint Denis gate.
“Is it true,” said the guard to the two cavaliers, “that the Duc de
Beaufort has arrived in Paris?”
“Nothing more certain; and the best proof of it is,” said D’Artagnan,
“that he has dispatched us to meet the Duc de Vendome, his father, who
is coming in his turn.”
“Long live De Beaufort!” cried the guards, and they drew back
respectfully to let the two friends pass. Once across the barriers
these two knew neither fatigue nor fear. Their horses flew, and they
never ceased speaking of Athos and Aramis.
The camp had entered Saint Omer; the friends made a little detour and
went to the camp, and gave the army an exact account of the flight of
the king and queen. They found Raoul near his tent, reclining on a
truss of hay, of which his horse stole some mouthfuls; the young man’s
eyes were red and he seemed dejected. The Marechal de Grammont and the
Comte de Guiche had returned to Paris and he was quite lonely. And as
soon as he saw the two cavaliers he ran to them with open arms.
“Oh, is it you, dear friends? Did you come here to fetch me? Will you
take me away with you? Do you bring me tidings of my guardian?”
“Have you not received any?” said D’Artagnan to the youth.
“Alas! sir, no, and I do not know what has become of him; so that I am
really so unhappy that I weep.”
In fact, tears rolled down his cheeks.
Porthos turned aside, in order not to show by his honest round face
what was passing in his mind.
“Deuce take it!” cried D’Artagnan, more moved than he had been for a
long time, “don’t despair, my friend, if you have not received any
letters from the count, we have received one.”
“Oh, really!” cried Raoul.
“And a comforting one, too,” added D’Artagnan, seeing the delight that
his intelligence gave the young man.
“Have you it?” asked Raoul
“Yes—that is, I had it,” repined the Gascon, making believe to find it.
“Wait, it ought to be there in my pocket; it speaks of his return, does
it not, Porthos?”
All Gascon as he was, D’Artagnan could not bear alone the weight of
that falsehood.
“Yes,” replied Porthos, coughing.
“Eh, give it to me!” said the young man.
“Eh! I read it a little while since. Can I have lost it? Ah! confound
it! yes, my pocket has a hole in it.”
“Oh, yes, Monsieur Raoul!” said Mousqueton, “the letter was very
consoling. These gentlemen read it to me and I wept for joy.”
“But at any rate, you know where he is, Monsieur d’Artagnan?” asked
Raoul, somewhat comforted.
“Ah! that’s the thing!” replied the Gascon. “Undoubtedly I know it, but
it is a mystery.”
“Not to me, I hope?”
“No, not to you, so I am going to tell you where he is.”
Porthos devoured D’Artagnan with wondering eyes.
“Where the devil shall I say that he is, so that he cannot try to
rejoin him?” thought D’Artagnan.
“Well, where is he, sir?” asked Raoul, in a soft and coaxing voice.
“He is at Constantinople.”
“Among the Turks!” exclaimed Raoul, alarmed. “Good heavens! how can you
tell me that?”
“Does that alarm you?” cried D’Artagnan. “Pooh! what are the Turks to
such men as the Comte de la Fere and the Abbé d’Herblay?”
“Ah, his friend is with him?” said Raoul. “That comforts me a little.”
“Has he wit or not—this demon D’Artagnan?” said Porthos, astonished at
his friend’s deception.
“Now, sir,” said D’Artagnan, wishing to change the conversation, “here
are fifty pistoles that the count has sent you by the same courier. I
suppose you have no more money and that they will be welcome.”
“I have still twenty pistoles, sir.”
“Well, take them; that makes seventy.”
“And if you wish for more,” said Porthos, putting his hand to his
pocket——
“Thank you, sir,” replied Raoul, blushing; “thank you a thousand
times.”
At this moment Olivain appeared. “Apropos,” said D’Artagnan, loud
enough for the servant to hear him, “are you satisfied with Olivain?”
“Yes, in some respects, tolerably well.”
Olivain pretended to have heard nothing and entered the tent.
“What fault do you find with the fellow?”
“He is a glutton.”
“Oh, sir!” cried Olivain, reappearing at this accusation.
“And a little bit of a thief.”
“Oh, sir! oh!”
“And, more especially, a notorious coward.”
“Oh, oh! sir! you really vilify me!” cried Olivain.
“The deuce!” cried D’Artagnan. “Pray learn, Monsieur Olivain, that
people like us are not to be served by cowards. Rob your master, eat
his sweetmeats, and drink his wine; but, by Jove! don’t be a coward, or
I shall cut off your ears. Look at Monsieur Mouston, see the honorable
wounds he has received, observe how his habitual valor has given
dignity to his countenance.”
Mousqueton was in the third heaven and would have embraced D’Artagnan
had he dared; meanwhile he resolved to sacrifice his life for him on
the next occasion that presented itself.
“Send away that fellow, Raoul,” said the Gascon; “for if he’s a coward
he will disgrace thee some day.”
“Monsieur says I am coward,” cried Olivain, “because he wanted the
other day to fight a cornet in Grammont’s regiment and I refused to
accompany him.”
“Monsieur Olivain, a lackey ought never to disobey,” said D’Artagnan,
sternly; then taking him aside, he whispered to him: “Thou hast done
right; thy master was in the wrong; here’s a crown for thee, but should
he ever be insulted and thou dost not let thyself be cut in quarters
for him, I will cut out thy tongue. Remember that.”
Olivain bowed and slipped the crown into his pocket.
“And now, Raoul,” said the Gascon, “Monsieur du Vallon and I are going
away as ambassadors, where, I know not; but should you want anything,
write to Madame Turquaine, at La Chevrette, Rue Tiquetonne and draw
upon her purse as on a banker—with economy; for it is not so well
filled as that of Monsieur d’Emery.”
And having, meantime, embraced his ward, he passed him into the robust
arms of Porthos, who lifted him up from the ground and held him a
moment suspended near the noble heart of the formidable giant.
“Come,” said D’Artagnan, “let us go.”
And they set out for Boulogne, where toward evening they arrived, their
horses flecked with foam and dark with perspiration.
At ten steps from the place where they halted was a young man in black,
who seemed waiting for some one, and who, from the moment he saw them
enter the town, never took his eyes off them.
D’Artagnan approached him, and seeing him stare so fixedly, said:
“Well, friend! I don’t like people to quiz me!”
“Sir,” said the young man, “do you not come from Paris, if you please?”
D’Artagnan thought it was some gossip who wanted news from the capital.
“Yes, sir,” he said, in a softened tone.
“Are you not going to put up at the ‘Arms of England’?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you not charged with a mission from his eminence, Cardinal
Mazarin?”
“Yes, sir.”
“In that case, I am the man you have to do with. I am M. Mordaunt.”
“Ah!” thought D’Artagnan, “the man I am warned against by Athos.”
“Ah!” thought Porthos, “the man Aramis wants me to strangle.”
They both looked searchingly at the young man, who misunderstood the
meaning of that inquisition.
“Do you doubt my word?” he said. “In that case I can give you proofs.”
“No, sir,” said D’Artagnan; “and we place ourselves at your orders.”
“Well, gentlemen,” resumed Mordaunt, “we must set out without delay,
to-day is the last day granted me by the cardinal. My ship is ready,
and had you not come I must have set off without you, for General
Cromwell expects my return impatiently.”
“So!” thought the lieutenant, “’tis to General Cromwell that our
dispatches are addressed.”
“Have you no letter for him?” asked the young man.
“I have one, the seal of which I am not to break till I reach London;
but since you tell me to whom it is addressed, ’tis useless to wait
till then.”
D’Artagnan tore open the envelope of the letter. It was directed to
“Monsieur Oliver Cromwell, General of the Army of the English Nation.”
“Ah!” said D’Artagnan; “a singular commission.”
“Who is this Monsieur Oliver Cromwell?” inquired Porthos.
“Formerly a brewer,” replied the Gascon.
“Perhaps Mazarin wishes to make a speculation in beer, as we did in
straw,” said Porthos.
“Come, come, gentlemen,” said Mordaunt, impatiently, “let us depart.”
“What!” exclaimed Porthos “without supper? Cannot Monsieur Cromwell
wait a little?”
“Yes, but I?” said Mordaunt.
“Well, you,” said Porthos, “what then?”
“I cannot wait.”
“Oh! as to you, that is not my concern, and I shall sup either with or
without your permission.”
The young man’s eyes kindled in secret, but he restrained himself.
“Monsieur,” said D’Artagnan, “you must excuse famished travelers.
Besides, our supper can’t delay you much. We will hasten on to the inn;
you will meanwhile proceed on foot to the harbor. We will take a bite
and shall be there as soon as you are.”
“Just as you please, gentlemen, provided we set sail,” he said.
“The name of your ship?” inquired D’Artagnan.
“The Standard.”
“Very well; in half an hour we shall be on board.”
And the friends, spurring on their horses, rode to the hotel, the “Arms
of England.”
“What do you say of that young man?” asked D’Artagnan, as they hurried
along.
“I say that he doesn’t suit me at all,” said Porthos, “and that I feel
a strong itching to follow Aramis’s advice.”
“By no means, my dear Porthos; that man is a messenger of General
Cromwell; it would insure for us a poor reception, I imagine, should it
be announced to him that we had twisted the neck of his confidant.”
“Nevertheless,” said Porthos, “I have always noticed that Aramis gives
good advice.”
“Listen,” returned D’Artagnan, “when our embassy is finished——”
“Well?”
“If it brings us back to France——”
“Well?”
“Well, we shall see.”
At that moment the two friends reached the hotel, “Arms of England,”