The Three Musketeers (The Modern Library) - Alexandre Dumas [114]
Although D’Artagnan did not know the Queen, he soon distinguished her voice from the others, first by a slight foreign accent, then by that tone of domination natural to sovereigns. He heard the voice approach then withdraw from the door; then, almost imperceptibly, the knob turned and the door opened stealthily and ever so slightly. D’Artagnan even saw the shadow of a person who, walking up and down, occasionally intercepted the light.
At length a hand and arm of wondrous form and whiteness appeared through the tapestry. D’Artagnan, understanding that this was his recompense, fell to his knees, grasped the outstretched hand and respectfully pressed it to his lips. Before he realized what had happened, the hand was withdrawn and, as he looked down, blinking, at his own hand, he saw and felt an object in his palm, a hard, bright object which he recognized as a ring. Then, the door was promptly closed and D’Artagnan once again found himself in complete darkness.
Our Gascon placed the ring on his finger and again waited; obviously all was not yet over. After the reward of his devotion surely he would receive that of his love. Besides, though the ballet was done, the festivities had scarcely begun: supper was to be served at three o’clock and the clock of Saint-Jean had just struck a quarter to three.
The sound of voices in the next room gradually diminished, the echo of departing footsteps reached him, and the door to the corridor suddenly opened. Madame Bonacieux entered briskly.
“You, at last!” cried D’Artagnan.
“Hush!” she commanded, pressing her hand on his lips. “Not a sound! You must go away at once just as you came.”
“But when shall I see you again? When? And where?”
“You will find a note from me waiting at your home. Begone now, I implore you; begone and God bless you!”
Quickly she pushed D’Artagnan out of the room. He obeyed like a child, without venturing objection or resistance—which proves conclusively that he was genuinely in love with her.
XXIII
THE RENDEZVOUS
D’Artagnan ran home immediately. Though it was past three in the morning and he had to go through some of the most ill-famed and dangerous quarters of Paris, he met with no misadventure. As everybody knows, drunkards and lovers are protected by a special deity.
He found the door to his passage ajar, climbed the staircase and knocked gently, two short raps followed by three, as agreed upon between him and his lackey. He had sent Planchet home from the Hôtel de Ville two hours before and, according to instructions, Planchet was sitting up awaiting his arrival.
“Did anyone bring me a letter?” D’Artagnan asked eagerly.
“No, Monsieur.”
D’Artagnan’s face fell.
“No, Monsieur, nobody brought you a letter,” Planchet went on, “but there is a letter here which seems to have come of itself.”
“What on earth do you mean, ass?”
“I mean to say that when I came home, I had the key to your apartment in my pocket . . . I had that key, Monsieur, and I never let it out of my hands . . . and yet I found a letter for you sitting up on the green tablecover in your bedroom like a white tulip in a bunch of ferns. . . .”
“Where is the letter?”
“I left it where it lay, Monsieur.” Planchet drew a deep breath. “Begging your pardon, Monsieur, it is not natural for letters to come into people’s houses like that. Had the window been open or even half open, I should think nothing of it; but no, Monsieur, everything was tight shut. I beg Monsieur to beware; I vow there’s witchcraft in all this.”
While Planchet was expatiating, D’Artagnan ran to his bedroom and tore open the letter. It was from Madame Bonacieux and ran as follows:. Great thanks are due you and await your presence so that they may be given you.
Pray come this evening at about ten o’clock to Saint-Cloud and wait opposite the lodge