At four o’clock the four friends were all assembled in Athos’s apartments. Their anxiety about their outfits had all disappeared， and each face preserved now only the expression of its own secret anxieties， for behind all present happiness is concealed a fear for the future.
Suddenly Planchet entered， bringing two letters for D’Artagnan.
The one was a little note neatly folded， with a pretty seal in green wax， on which was impressed a dove bearing a green branch.
The other was a large square epistle， resplendent with the terrible arms of his Eminence the cardinal-duke.
At the sight of the little letter D’Artagnan’s heart bounded， for he thought he recognized the writing； and though he had seen it but once， the memory of it remained at the bottom of his heart.
He therefore seized the little letter and opened it eagerly.
“On Thursday next， at seven o’clock in the evening，” said the letter， “be on the road to Chaillot. Look carefully into the carriages that pass； but if you value your own life， or the life of those who love you， do not speak a word， do not make a motion which may lead any one to believe that you recognize her who exposes herself to everything for the sake of seeing you for an instant only.”
No signature.
“That’s a snare，” said Athos； “don’t go， D’Artagnan.”
“And yet，” replied D’Artagnan， “I think I recognize the writing.”
“But your second letter，” said Athos—“you forget that. It appears to me， however， the seal shows it well deserves to be opened. For my part， I declare， D’Artagnan， I think it of much more consequence than the little piece of waste paper you have so slyly slipped into your bosom.”
D’Artagnan grew red.
“Well，” said the young man， “let us see， gentlemen， what his Eminence wants of me.” And D’Artagnan unsealed the letter and read，
“M. D’Artagnan， of the king’s guards， company Des Essarts， is expected at the Palais-Cardinal this evening at eight o’clock.
“La Houdenière， Captain of the Guards.”
“The devil！” said Athos； “here’s a rendezvous much more serious than the other.”
“I will go to the second after attending the first，” said D’Artagnan. “One is for seven o’clock， and the other for eight； there will be time for both.”
At this moment the clock of La Samaritaine struck six， and a short gallop brought D’Artagnan to the Chaillot road. The day was beginning to decline， carriages were passing and repassing. D’Artagnan darted a scrutinizing glance into every carriage that appeared， but saw no face with which he was acquainted.
At length， after waiting a quarter of an hour， and just as it was quite twilight， a carriage appeared， coming at full speed， on the road to Sèvres. A presentiment instantly told D’Artagnan that this carriage contained the person who had appointed the rendezvous. The young man was himself astonished to feel his heart beating so violently. Almost instantly a woman put her head out at the window， with two fingers placed on her mouth， either to enjoin silence or to send him a kiss. D’Artagnan uttered a slight cry of joy. This woman， or rather this apparition—for the carriage passed with the rapidity of a vision— was Madame Bonacieux.
By an involuntary movement， and in spite of the injunction given， D’Artagnan started his horse to a gallop， and in a few strides overtook the carriage. But the window was hermetically shut； the vision had disappeared.
D’Artagnan then remembered the injunction contained in the anonymous note： “If you value your own life， or the life of those who love you， do not speak a word， do not make a motion which may lead any one to believe that you recognize her who exposes herself to everything for the sake of seeing you for an instant only.”
He stopped， therefore， trembling， not for himself， but for the poor woman who had evidently exposed herself to great danger by appointing this rendezvous.
The carriage pursued its way， still going at a full pace， till it dashed into Paris and disappeared.
D’Artagnan remained fixed to the spot， astounded， and not knowing what to think. If it was Madame Bonacieux， and if she was returning to Paris， why this fugitive interview？ why this simple exchange of a glance？ why this last kiss？ If， on the other side， it was not she， which was still quite possible—for the little light that remained rendered a mistake easy—if it was not she， might it not be the beginning of some machination against him with the bait of this woman with whom it was known he was in love？
Half-past seven struck. The carriage was twenty minutes behind the time appointed. D’Artagnan remembered that he had a visit to pay.
He reached the Rue St. Honoré， and in the Place du Palais-Cardinal， he entered boldly at the front gate.
He entered the antechamber and placed his letter in the hands of the user on duty， who showed him into the waiting-room and passed on into the interior of the palace.
The usher returned and made a sign to D’Artagnan to follow him. He passed along a corridor， crossed a large drawing-room， entered a library， and found himself in the presence of a man seated at a desk and writing.
The usher introduced him and retired without speaking a word. D’Artagnan remained standing and examined this man.
D’Artagnan at first believed that he had to do with some judge examining his papers， but he perceived that the man at the desk was writing， or rather correcting， lines of unequal length by scanning the words on his fingers. He saw that he was in presence of a poet. In an instant the poet closed his manuscript， on the cover of which was written Mirame， a Tragedy in Five Acts， and raised his head.
D’Artagnan recognized the cardinal.
