“Oh, I understand. We must be discreet with such letters. But nevertheless we may show them to a confessor, and you know I have taken orders.”

“Monseigneur,” said Athos, with a calmness all the more terrible that he risked his life when he made this reply, “the letter is a woman’s, but it is neither signed Marion de Lorme nor Madame d’Arguillon.”

The cardinal became as pale as death. A flash of fire darted from his eyes. He turned round as if to give an order to Cahusac and Houdinière. Athos saw the movement; he took a step toward the muskets, on which the other three friends had fixed their eyes like men ill-disposed to allow themselves to be arrested. The cardinal’s party consisted of only three; the musketeers, lackeys included, numbered seven. He judged that the match would be so much the less equal if Athos and his companions were really plotting; and by one of those quick changes which he always had at command, all his anger faded away into a smile.

“Come, come!” said he, “you are brave young men, proud in daylight, faithful in darkness; no fault can be found with you for watching over yourselves when you watch so carefully over others. Gentlemen, I have not forgotten the night in which you served me as an escort to the Red Dovecot. If there were any danger to be apprehended on the road I am going, I should request you to accompany me; but as there is none, remain where you are, finish your bottles, your game, and your letter. Farewell, gentlemen!”

And remounting his horse, which Cahusac had led to him, he saluted them with his hand and rode away.

The four young men, standing motionless, followed him with their eyes without speaking a single word until he had disappeared.

Then they looked at one another.

All showed their consternation and terror in their faces; for notwithstanding his Eminence’s friendly farewell, they plainly perceived that the cardinal went away with rage in his heart.

Athos alone smiled with a self-possessed, disdainful smile.

When the cardinal was out of hearing and sight,

“That Grimaud kept but tardy watch!” cried Porthos, anxious to visit his ill-humour on some one.

Grimaud was about to excuse himself. Athos lifted his finger, and Grimaud was silent.

“Would you have given up the letter, Aramis?” said D’Artagnan.

“I,” said Aramis, in his most flute-like tone—“I had made up my mind. If he had insisted on the letter being given up to him, I would have presented the letter to him with one hand, and with the other I would have run my sword through his body.”

“I expected as much,” said Athos; “and that was why I interfered between you and him. Truly, this man is very unwise to talk in this way to other men; one would say he had never had to do with any but women and children.”

“My dear Athos,” said D’Artagnan, “I admire you very much, but, nevertheless, we were in the wrong, after all.”

“How in the wrong?” exclaimed Athos. “Whose, then, is the air we breath? Whose is the ocean on which we look? Whose is the sand on which we were reclining? Whose is that letter of your mistress’s? The cardinal’s? ’Pon my honour, this man fancies the world belongs to him. There you stood, stammering, stupefied, confounded. One might have supposed that the Bastille appeared before you, and that the gigantic Medusa was converting you into stone. Come, now, is to be in love conspiring? You are in love