“But if he does not come?” said d’Artagnan.

“Well, if he does not come, it will be because he has been delayed, that’s all.  He may have fallen from his horse, he may have cut a caper from the deck; he may have traveled so fast against the wind as to have brought on a violent catarrh.  Eh, gentlemen, let us reckon upon accidents!  Life is a chaplet of little miseries which the philosopher counts with a smile.  Be philosophers, as I am, gentlemen; sit down at the table and let us drink.  Nothing makes the future look so bright as surveying it through a glass of chambertin.”

“That’s all very well,” replied d’Artagnan; “but I am tired of fearing when I open a fresh bottle that the wine may come from the cellar of Milady.”

“You are very fastidious,” said Athos; “such a beautiful woman!”

“A woman of mark!” said Porthos, with his loud laugh.

Athos started, passed his hand over his brow to remove the drops of perspiration that burst forth, and rose in his turn with a nervous movement he could not repress.

The day, however, passed away; and the evening came on slowly, but finally it came.  The bars were filled with drinkers.  Athos, who had pocketed his share of the diamond, seldom quit the Parpaillot.  He had found in M. de Busigny, who, by the by, had given them a magnificent dinner, a partner worthy of his company.  They were playing together, as usual, when seven o’clock sounded; the patrol was heard passing to double the posts.  At half past seven the retreat was sounded.

“We are lost,” said d’Artagnan, in the ear of Athos.

“You mean to say we have lost,” said Athos, quietly, drawing four pistoles from his pocket and throwing them upon the table.  “Come, gentlemen,” said he, “they are beating the tattoo.  Let us to bed!”

And Athos went out of the Parpaillot, followed by d’Artagnan.  Aramis came behind, giving his arm to Porthos.  Aramis mumbled verses to himself, and Porthos from time to time pulled a hair or two from his mustache, in sign of despair.

But all at once a shadow appeared in the darkness the outline of which was familiar to d’Artagnan, and a well-known voice said, “Monsieur, I have brought your cloak; it is chilly this evening.”

“Planchet!” cried d’Artagnan, beside himself with joy.

“Planchet!” repeated Aramis and Porthos.

“Well, yes, Planchet, to be sure,” said Athos, “what is there so astonishing in that?  He promised to be back by eight o’clock, and eight is striking.  Bravo, Planchet, you are a lad of your word, and if ever you leave your master, I will promise you a place in my service.”

“Oh, no, never,” said Planchet, “I will never leave Monsieur d’Artagnan.”

At the same time d’Artagnan felt that Planchet slipped a note into his hand.

D’Artagnan felt a strong inclination to embrace Planchet as he had embraced him on his departure; but he feared lest this mark of affection, bestowed upon his lackey in the open street, might appear extraordinary to passers-by, and he restrained himself.