It had been D’Artagnan’s practice, ever since the riots, to sleep in the same room as Porthos, and on this eventful morning he was still there, sleeping, and dreaming that a yellow cloud had overspread the sky and was raining gold pieces into his hat, which he held out till it was overflowing with pistoles. As for Porthos, he dreamed that the panels of his carriage were not capacious enough to contain the armorial bearings he had ordered to be painted on them. They were both aroused at seven o’clock by the entrance of an unliveried servant, who brought a letter for D’Artagnan. “From whom?” asked the Gascon. “From the queen,” replied the servant. “Ho!” said Porthos, raising himself in his bed; “what does she say?” D’Artagnan requested the servant to wait in the next room and when the door was closed he sprang up from his bed and read rapidly, whilst Porthos looked at him with starting eyes, not daring to ask a single question. “Friend Porthos,” said D’Artagnan, handing the letter to him, “this time, at least, you are sure of your title of baron, and I of my captaincy. Read for yourself and judge.” Porthos took the letter and with a trembling voice read the following words: “The queen wishes to speak to Monsieur d’Artagnan, who must follow the bearer.” “Well!” exclaimed Porthos; “I see nothing in that very extraordinary.” “But I see much that is very extraordinary in it,” replied D’Artagnan. “It is evident, by their sending for me, that matters are becoming complicated. Just reflect a little what an agitation the queen’s mind must be in for her to have remembered me after twenty years.” “It is true,” said Porthos. “Sharpen your sword, baron, load your pistols, and give some corn to the horses, for I will answer for it, something lightning-like will happen ere to-morrow.” “But, stop; do you think it can be a trap that they are laying for us?” suggested Porthos, incessantly thinking how his greatness must be irksome to inferior people. “If it is a snare,” replied D’Artagnan, “I shall scent it out, be assured. If Mazarin is an Italian, I am a Gascon.” And D’Artagnan dressed himself in an instant. Whilst Porthos, still in bed, was hooking on his cloak for him, a second knock at the door was heard. “Come in,” exclaimed D’Artagnan; and another servant entered. “From His Eminence, Cardinal Mazarin,” presenting a letter. D’Artagnan looked at Porthos. “A complicated affair,” said Porthos; “where will you begin?” “It is arranged capitally; his eminence expects me in half an hour.” “Good.” “My friend,” said D’Artagnan, turning to the servant, “tell his eminence that in half an hour I shall be at his command.” “It is very fortunate,” resumed the Gascon, when the valet had retired, “that he did not meet the other one.” “Do you not think that they have sent for you, both for the same thing?” “I do not think it, I am certain of it.”