the panels of his carriage were not capacious enough to
contain the armorial bearings he had ordered to be painted
on them. They were both aroused at seven o’clock by the
entrance of an unliveried servant, who brought a letter for
D’Artagnan.
“From whom?” asked the Gascon.
“From the queen,” replied the servant.
“Ho!” said Porthos, raising himself in his bed; “what does
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she say?”
D’Artagnan requested the servant to wait in the next room
and when the door was closed he sprang up from his bed and
read rapidly, whilst Porthos looked at him with starting
eyes, not daring to ask a single question.
“Friend Porthos,” said D’Artagnan, handing the letter to
him, “this time, at least, you are sure of your title of
baron, and I of my captaincy. Read for yourself and judge.”
Porthos took the letter and with a trembling voice read the
following words:
“The queen wishes to speak to Monsieur d’Artagnan, who must
follow the bearer.”
“Well!” exclaimed Porthos; “I see nothing in that very
extraordinary.”
“But I see much that is very extraordinary in it,” replied
D’Artagnan. “It is evident, by their sending for me, that
matters are becoming complicated. Just reflect a little what
an agitation the queen’s mind must be in for her to have
remembered me after twenty years.”
“It is true,” said Porthos.
“Sharpen your sword, baron, load your pistols, and give some
corn to the horses, for I will answer for it,
something lightning-like will happen ere to-morrow.”
“But, stop; do you think it can be a trap that they are
laying for us?” suggested Porthos, incessantly thinking how
his greatness must be irksome to inferior people.
“If it is a snare,” replied D’Artagnan, “I shall scent it
out, be assured. If Mazarin is an Italian, I am a Gascon.”
And D’Artagnan dressed himself in an instant.
Whilst Porthos, still in bed, was hooking on his cloak for
him, a second knock at the door was heard.
“Come in,” exclaimed D’Artagnan; and another servant
entered.
“From His Eminence, Cardinal Mazarin,” presenting a letter.
D’Artagnan looked at Porthos.
“A complicated affair,” said Porthos; “where will you
begin?”
“It is arranged capitally; his eminence expects me in half
an hour.”
“Good.”
“My friend,” said D’Artagnan, turning to the servant, “tell
his eminence that in half an hour I shall be at his
command.”
“It is very fortunate,” resumed the Gascon, when the valet
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had retired, “that he did not meet the other one.”
“Do you not think that they have sent for you, both for the
same thing?”
“I do not think it, I am certain of it.”
“Quick, quick, D’Artagnan. Remember that the queen awaits
you, and after the queen, the cardinal, and after the
cardinal, myself.”
D’Artagnan summoned Anne of Austria’s servant and signified
that he was ready to follow him into the queen’s presence.
The servant conducted him by the Rue des Petits Champs and
turning to the left entered the little garden gate leading
into the Rue Richelieu; then they gained the private
staircase and D’Artagnan was ushered into the oratory. A
certain emotion, for which he could not account, made the
lieutenant’s heart beat: he had no longer the assurance of
youth; experience had taught him the importance of past
events. Formerly he would have approached the queen as a
young man who bends before a woman; but now it was a
different thing; he answered her summons as an humble
soldier obeys an illustrious general.
The silence of the oratory was at last disturbed by the
slight rustling of silk, and D’Artagnan started when he
perceived the tapestry raised by a white hand, which, by its
form, its color and its beauty he recognized as that royal
hand which had one day been presented to him to kiss. The
queen entered.
“It is you, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” she said, fixing a gaze
full of melancholy interest on the countenance of the
officer, “and I know you well. Look at me well in your turn.
I am the queen; do you recognize me?”
“No, madame,” replied D’Artagnan.
“But are you no longer aware,” continued Anne, giving that