Athos glanced around at his friends with a melancholy smile. Porthos turned to look at his sword, which was hanging on the wall; Aramis seized his knife; D’Artagnan arose. “What do you mean, Grimaud?” he exclaimed. “That Milady’s son has left England, that he is in France, on his road to Paris, if he be not here already.” “The devil he is!” said Porthos. “Are you sure of it?” “Certain,” replied Grimaud. This announcement was received in silence. Grimaud was so breathless, so exhausted, that he had fallen back upon a chair. Athos filled a beaker with champagne and gave it to him. “Well, after all,” said D’Artagnan, “supposing that he lives, that he comes to Paris; we have seen many other such. Let him come.” “Yes,” echoed Porthos, glancing affectionately at his sword, still hanging on the wall; “we can wait for him; let him come.” “Moreover, he is but a child,” said Aramis. Grimaud rose. “A child!” he exclaimed. “Do you know what he has done, this child? Disguised as a monk he discovered the whole history in confession from the executioner of Bethune, and having confessed him, after having learned everything from him, he gave him absolution by planting this dagger into his heart. See, it is on fire yet with his hot blood, for it is not thirty hours since it was drawn from the wound.” And Grimaud threw the dagger on the table. D’Artagnan, Porthos and Aramis rose and in one spontaneous motion rushed to their swords. Athos alone remained seated, calm and thoughtful. “And you say he is dressed as a monk, Grimaud?” “Yes, as an Augustine monk.” “What sized man is he?” “About my height; thin, pale, with light blue eyes and tawny flaxen hair.” “And he did not see Raoul?” asked Athos. “Yes, on the contrary, they met, and it was the viscount himself who conducted him to the bed of the dying man.” Athos, in his turn, rising without speaking, went and unhooked his sword. “Heigh, sir,” said D’Artagnan, trying to laugh, “do you know we look very much like a flock of silly, mouse-evading women! How is it that we, four men who have faced armies without blinking, begin to tremble at the mention of a child?” “It is true,” said Athos, “but this child comes in the name of Heaven.” And very soon they left the inn. Chapter XXXVI. A Letter from Charles the First. The reader must now cross the Seine with us and follow us to the door of the Carmelite Convent in the Rue Saint Jacques. It is eleven o’clock in the morning and the pious sisters have just finished saying mass for the success of the armies of King Charles I. Leaving the church, a woman and a young girl dressed in black, the one as a widow and the other as an orphan, have re-entered their cell. The woman kneels on a _prie-dieu_ of painted wood and at a short distance from her stands the young girl, leaning against a chair, weeping.