In the morning, as he was mounting his horse, d’Artagnan, who felt at the bottom of his heart a partiality for the duke, took Planchet aside.

“Listen,” said he to him.  “When you have given the letter to Lord de Winter and he has read it, you will further say to him:  Watch over his Grace Lord Buckingham, for they wish to assassinate him.  But this, Planchet, is so serious and important that I have not informed my friends that I would entrust this secret to you; and for a captain’s commission I would not write it.”

“Be satisfied, monsieur,” said Planchet, “you shall see if confidence can be placed in me.”

Mounted on an excellent horse, which he was to leave at the end of twenty leagues in order to take the post, Planchet set off at a gallop, his spirits a little depressed by the triple promise made him by the Musketeers, but otherwise as light-hearted as possible.

Bazin set out the next day for Tours, and was allowed eight days for performing his commission.

The four friends, during the period of these two absences, had, as may well be supposed, the eye on the watch, the nose to the wind, and the ear on the hark.  Their days were passed in endeavoring to catch all that was said, in observing the proceeding of the cardinal, and in looking out for all the couriers who arrived.  More than once an involuntary trembling seized them when called upon for some unexpected service.  They had, besides, to look constantly to their own proper safety; Milady was a phantom which, when it had once appeared to people, did not allow them to sleep very quietly.

On the morning of the eighth day, Bazin, fresh as ever, and smiling, according to custom, entered the cabaret of the Parpaillot as the four friends were sitting down to breakfast, saying, as had been agreed upon:  “Monsieur Aramis, the answer from your cousin.”

The four friends exchanged a joyful glance; half of the work was done.  It is true, however, that it was the shorter and easier part.

Aramis, blushing in spite of himself, took the letter, which was in a large, coarse hand and not particular for its orthography.

“Good God!” cried he, laughing, “I quite despair of my poor Michon; she will never write like Monsieur de Voiture.”

“What does you mean by boor Michon?” said the Swiss, who was chatting with the four friends when the letter came.

“Oh, pardieu, less than nothing,” said Aramis; “a charming little seamstress, whom I love dearly and from whose hand I requested a few lines as a sort of keepsake.”

“The duvil!” said the Swiss, “if she is as great a lady as her writing is large, you are a lucky fellow, gomrade!”

Aramis read the letter, and passed it to Athos.

“See what she writes to me, Athos,” said he.

Athos cast a glance over the epistle, and to disperse all the suspicions that might have been created, read aloud: