“Woe to that man who should happen to contradict my master at this moment,” said Mousqueton to himself; “I wouldn’t give a farthing for his life.” They set out. On arriving at the Rue Saint Denis, the friends found a vast concourse of people. It was the Duc de Beaufort, who was coming from the Vendomois and whom the coadjutor was showing to the Parisians, intoxicated with joy. With the duke’s aid they already considered themselves invincible. The two friends turned off into a side street to avoid meeting the prince, and so reached the Saint Denis gate. “Is it true,” said the guard to the two cavaliers, “that the Duc de Beaufort has arrived in Paris?” “Nothing more certain; and the best proof of it is,” said D’Artagnan, “that he has dispatched us to meet the Duc de Vendôme, his father, who is coming in his turn.” “Long live De Beaufort!” cried the guards, and they drew back respectfully to let the two friends pass. Once across the barriers these two knew neither fatigue nor fear. Their horses flew, and they never ceased speaking of Athos and Aramis. The camp had entered Saint Omer; the friends made a little detour and went to the camp, and gave the army an exact account of the flight of the king and queen. They found Raoul near his tent, reclining on a truss of hay, of which his horse stole some mouthfuls; the young man’s eyes were red and he seemed dejected. The Maréchal de Grammont and the Comte de Guiche had returned to Paris and he was quite lonely. And as soon as he saw the two cavaliers he ran to them with open arms. “Oh, is it you, dear friends? Did you come here to fetch me? Will you take me away with you? Do you bring me tidings of my guardian?” “Have you not received any?” said D’Artagnan to the youth. “Alas! sir, no, and I do not know what has become of him; so that I am really so unhappy that I weep.” In fact, tears rolled down his cheeks. Porthos turned aside, in order not to show by his honest round face what was passing in his mind. “Deuce take it!” cried D’Artagnan, more moved than he had been for a long time, “don’t despair, my friend, if you have not received any letters from the count, we have received one.” “Oh, really!” cried Raoul. “And a comforting one, too,” added D’Artagnan, seeing the delight that his intelligence gave the young man. “Have you it?” asked Raoul “Yes—that is, I had it,” repined the Gascon, making believe to find it. “Wait, it ought to be there in my pocket; it speaks of his return, does it not, Porthos?” All Gascon as he was, D’Artagnan could not bear alone the weight of that falsehood. “Yes,” replied Porthos, coughing. “Eh, give it to me!” said the young man. “Eh! I read it a little while since. Can I have lost it? Ah! confound it! yes, my pocket has a hole in it.” “Oh, yes, Monsieur Raoul!” said Mousqueton, “the letter was very consoling. These gentlemen read it to me and I wept for joy.”