The Three Musketeers (The Modern Library) - Alexandre Dumas [61]
D’Artagnan had just passed the Rue Cassette and could see the door of his friend’s house, nestling under a clump of sycamores and clematis that formed a vast leafy arch above. Suddenly a shadowlike form issued from the Rue Servandoni. That form was wrapped up in a cloak, and D’Artagnan first thought it was a man but the slenderness of the figure, the hesitancy of the gait and the insecurity of the steps convinced him that it was a woman. As if uncertain of the house she sought, she kept looking up to get her bearings, stopped, retraced her steps, and once again approached. D’Artagnan was seized with curiosity.
“Shall I go offer my services?” he wondered. “Judging by her step, I would say she was young; perhaps she is pretty! Yes, but a woman scarcely ventures on the streets at this hour unless she is going to meet her lover. A pox on it! To disturb a lovers’ rendezvous is no way to begin an acquaintance!”
Meanwhile the young woman kept coming forward counting the houses and the windows. This was neither long nor difficult, for there were but three houses in that part of the street and only two windows looking out upon it: one in a pavilion parallel to that of Aramis, the other in the pavilion Aramis occupied.
“Pardieu!” said D’Artagnan to himself as he recalled the theologian’s niece, “Pardieu, how droll if this belated dove were bound for my friend’s house! Upon my soul, it looks very much like it. Ah, my dear Aramis, this time my curiosity shall be satisfied!”
And he drew back, making himself as thin as possible, as he took his stand on the darkest side of the street near a stone bench set in a niche. The young woman continued to advance, betraying herself not only by her light step but also by a soft cough—a signal, thought D’Artagnan—which suggested a sweet voice. Either a corresponding signal settled the doubts of the nocturnal adventuress or she needed no aid to recognize that she had reached the end of her journey; at all events, she stepped resolutely forward and, with finger crooked, rapped three times, at equal intervals, on the musketeer’s shutter.
“It is Aramis!” D’Artagnan murmured. “Ha, Monsieur Hypocrite, this time I’ve caught you studying theology.”
Scarcely was the rapping done when the window opened and a light appeared through the slats of the shutter.
“Ah ha!” said our quidnunc, “the pretty caller was expected! There, the shutters will open in a minute and the lady will climb over the window sill, entering by escalade, to use a technical term. Very neat, very neat indeed.”
To his vast astonishment, however, the shutter remained closed, the light that had shown for a moment disappeared, and once again darkness reigned.
D’Artagnan, sensing that this could not last long, kept his eyes peeled and his ears pricked up for the next move. He was right. After a few seconds two sharp raps were heard inside; the young woman in the street replied by a single rap and the shutter opened ever so slightly.
The reader may judge with what avidity D’Artagnan looked and listened. Unfortunately the light had been moved into another room. But his eyes were accustomed to the night; and besides, according to report, the eyes of the Gascons, like those of cats, possess the faculty of seeing through the dark.
The young woman drew a white object from her pocket and unfolded it quickly into the shape of a handkerchief, then drew her interlocutor’s attention to one corner of it. D’Artagnan suddenly recalled the handkerchief