He came to this melancholy conclusion as he entered the antechamber. He placed his letter in the hands of the usher on duty, who led him into the waiting room and passed on into the interior of the palace. In this waiting room were five or six of the cardinal’s Guards, who recognized D’Artagnan, and knowing that it was he who had wounded Jussac, they looked upon him with a smile of singular meaning. This smile appeared to D’Artagnan to be of bad augury. Only, as our Gascon was not easily intimidated—or rather, thanks to a great pride natural to the men of his country, he did not allow one easily to see what was passing in his mind when that which was passing at all resembled fear—he placed himself haughtily in front of Messieurs the Guards, and waited with his hand on his hip, in an attitude by no means deficient in majesty. The usher returned and made a sign to D’Artagnan to follow him. It appeared to the young man that the Guards, on seeing him depart, chuckled among themselves. He traversed a corridor, crossed a grand saloon, 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 wrote, or rather corrected, lines of unequal length, scanning the words on his fingers. He saw then that he was with a poet. At the end of an instant the poet closed his manuscript, upon the cover of which was written “Mirame, a Tragedy in Five Acts,” and raised his head. D’Artagnan recognized the cardinal. Chapter XL. A TERRIBLE VISION The cardinal leaned his elbow on his manuscript, his cheek upon his hand, and looked intently at the young man for a moment. No one had a more searching eye than the Cardinal de Richelieu, and D’Artagnan felt this glance run through his veins like a fever. He however kept a good countenance, holding his hat in his hand and awaiting the good pleasure of his Eminence, without too much assurance, but also without too much humility. “Monsieur,” said the cardinal, “are you a D’Artagnan from Béarn?” “Yes, monseigneur,” replied the young man. “There are several branches of the D’Artagnans at Tarbes and in its environs,” said the cardinal; “to which do you belong?” “I am the son of him who served in the Religious Wars under the great King Henry, the father of his gracious Majesty.” “That is well. It is you who set out seven or eight months ago from your country to seek your fortune in the capital?” “Yes, monseigneur.” “You came through Meung, where something befell you. I don’t very well know what, but still something.” “Monseigneur,” said D’Artagnan, “this was what happened to me—”