D’Artagnan ran home immediately, and although it was three o’clock in the morning and he had some of the worst quarters of Paris to traverse, he met with no misadventure. Everyone knows that drunkards and lovers have a protecting deity. 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 Hôtel de Ville, telling him to sit up for him, opened the door for him. * The reader may ask, “How came Planchet here?” when he was left “stiff as a rush” in London. In the intervening time Buckingham perhaps sent him to Paris, as he did the horses. “Has anyone brought a letter for me?” asked D’Artagnan, eagerly. “No one has _brought_ a letter, monsieur,” replied Planchet; “but one has come of itself.” “What do you mean, blockhead?” “I mean to say that when I came in, although I had the key of your apartment in my pocket, and that key had never quit me, I found a letter on the green table cover in your bedroom.” “And where is that letter?” “I left it where I found it, monsieur. It is not natural for letters to enter people’s houses in this manner. If the window had been open or even ajar, I should think nothing of it; but, no—all was hermetically sealed. Beware, monsieur; there is certainly some magic underneath.” Meanwhile, the young man had darted in to his chamber, and opened the letter. It was from Mme. Bonacieux, and was expressed in these terms: “There are many thanks to be offered to you, and to be transmitted to you. Be this evening about ten o’clock at St. Cloud, in front of the pavilion which stands at the corner of the house of M. d’Estrées.—C.B.” While reading this letter, D’Artagnan felt his heart dilated and compressed by that delicious spasm which tortures and caresses the hearts of lovers. It was the first billet he had received; it was the first rendezvous that had been granted him. His heart, swelled by the intoxication of joy, felt ready to dissolve away at the very gate of that terrestrial paradise called Love! “Well, monsieur,” said Planchet, who had observed his master grow red and pale successively, “did I not guess truly? Is it not some bad affair?” “You are mistaken, Planchet,” replied D’Artagnan; “and as a proof, there is a crown to drink my health.” “I am much obliged to Monsieur for the crown he has given me, and I promise him to follow his instructions exactly; but it is not the less true that letters which come in this way into shut-up houses—” “Fall from heaven, my friend, fall from heaven.” “Then Monsieur is satisfied?” asked Planchet. “My dear Planchet, I am the happiest of men!” “And I may profit by Monsieur’s happiness, and go to bed?” “Yes, go.” “May the blessings of heaven fall upon Monsieur! But it is not the less true that that letter—” And Planchet retired, shaking his head with an air of doubt, which the liberality of D’Artagnan had not entirely effaced.