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and curiosity. All along the way, and as the corridors became more and more deserted, d’Artagnan wanted to stop the young woman, hold her, look at her, if only for an instant; but, quick as a bird, she always slipped from his hands, and when he wanted to speak, her finger brought to her lips with a charmingly imperative little gesture reminded him that he was under the sway of a power that he had to obey blindly, and that forbade him even the slightest complaint. Finally, after a minute or two of twists and turns, Mme Bonacieux opened a door and ushered the young man into a completely dark dressing room. There she again made him a sign to keep mum, and opening a second door hidden behind a tapestry, the gaps of which suddenly let in a bright light, she disappeared.

D’Artagnan stood motionless for a moment, asking himself where he was, but soon a ray of light that penetrated from the other room, the warm and perfumed air that reached him, the conversation of two or three women in a language at once respectful and elegant, the word “majesty” repeated several times, clearly indicated to him that he was in a dressing room adjoining the queen’s chamber.

The young man kept himself in the shadow and waited.

The queen appeared gay and happy, which seemed a great surprise to the persons around her, who were, on the contrary, accustomed to seeing her almost always anxious. The queen cast this joyful feeling back over the beauty of the fête, over the pleasure she had taken in the ballet, and as a queen is not to be contradicted, whether she smiles or weeps, they all outdid each other in praising the gallantry of the aldermen of the city of Paris.

Though d’Artagnan did not know the queen, he could tell her voice from the other voices, first by a slight foreign accent, then by that sense of domination naturally impressed upon all a sovereign’s words. He heard her approach and move away from the open door, and two or three times he even saw the shadow of a body block the light.

Finally, all at once a hand and an arm of adorable form and whiteness passed through the tapestry. D’Artagnan understood that this was his reward. He threw himself on his knees, grasped that hand, and respectfully pressed his lips to it. Then the hand withdrew, leaving in his an object that he recognized as being a ring. The door closed again at once, and d’Artagnan found himself in the most complete darkness.

D’Artagnan put the ring on his finger and waited again. It was evident that all was not yet over. After the reward for his devotion came the reward for his love. Besides, the ballet had been danced, but the evening had barely begun: there was supper at three o’clock, and the Saint-Jean clock had already struck two hours and three-quarters some time ago.

Indeed, the sound of voices gradually diminished in the neighboring room; then people were heard going away; then the door to the dressing room where d’Artagnan was opened again, and Mme Bonacieux rushed in.

“You, at last!” cried d’Artagnan.

“Hush!” said the young woman, pressing her hand to the young man’s lips. “Hush! And leave the same way you came.”

“But where and when shall I see you again?” cried d’Artagnan.

“A note that you will find on returning home will tell you. Go, go!”

And at these words, she opened the door to the corridor and pushed d’Artagnan out of the dressing room.

D’Artagnan obeyed like a child, without resistance and without any objection, which showed that he really was in love.

XXIII

THE RENDEZVOUS

D’Artagnan returned home at a run, and though it was past three in the morning, and he had to go through some of the worst quarters of Paris, he met with no trouble. As we know, there is a special god for drunkards and lovers.

He found the door to his alley ajar, climbed his stairway, and knocked softly and in a way agreed upon between him and his lackey. Planchet, whom he had sent home from the Hôtel de Ville two hours earlier with instructions to wait up for him, came to open the door.

“Did someone bring a letter for me?” d’Artagnan asked abruptly.

“No one brought