He might perhaps have been bought for less; but while D’Artagnan was discussing the price with the dealer, Athos was counting out the money on the table. Grimaud had a stout, short Picard cob, which cost three hundred livres. But when the saddle and arms for Grimaud were purchased, Athos had not a sou left of his hundred and fifty pistoles. D’Artagnan offered his friend a part of his share which he should return when convenient. But Athos only replied to this proposal by shrugging his shoulders. “How much did the Jew say he would give for the sapphire if he purchased it?” said Athos. “Five hundred pistoles.” “That is to say, two hundred more—a hundred pistoles for you and a hundred pistoles for me. Well, now, that would be a real fortune to us, my friend; let us go back to the Jew’s again.” “What! will you—” “This ring would certainly only recall very bitter remembrances; then we shall never be masters of three hundred pistoles to redeem it, so that we really should lose two hundred pistoles by the bargain. Go and tell him the ring is his, D’Artagnan, and bring back the two hundred pistoles with you.” “Reflect, Athos!” “Ready money is needful for the present time, and we must learn how to make sacrifices. Go, D’Artagnan, go; Grimaud will accompany you with his musketoon.” A half hour afterward, D’Artagnan returned with the two thousand livres, and without having met with any accident. It was thus Athos found at home resources which he did not expect. Chapter XXXIX. A VISION At four o’clock the four friends were all assembled with Athos. Their anxiety about their outfits had all disappeared, and each countenance only preserved the expression of its own secret disquiet—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 billet, genteelly 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 the heart of D’Artagnan bounded, for he believed he recognized the handwriting, and although he had seen that writing but once, the memory of it remained at the bottom of his heart. He therefore seized the little epistle, and opened it eagerly. “Be,” said the letter, “on Thursday next, at from six to seven o’clock in the evening, on the road to Chaillot, and look carefully into the carriages that pass; but if you have any consideration for your own life or that of those who love you, do not speak a single word, do not make a movement which may lead anyone to believe you have recognized her who exposes herself to everything for the sake of seeing you but for an instant.” No signature. “That’s a snare,” said Athos; “don’t go, D’Artagnan.” “And yet,” replied D’Artagnan, “I think I recognize the writing.”