A door hidden in the tapestry opened noiselessly and a man in black silently advanced and stood behind the chair on which Mazarin sat.

“Bernouin,” said the cardinal, not turning round, for having whistled, he knew that it was his valet-de-chambre who was behind him; “what musketeers are now within the palace?”

“The Black Musketeers, my lord.”

“What company?”

“Treville’s company.”

“Is there any officer belonging to this company in the ante-chamber?”

“Lieutenant d’Artagnan.”

“A man on whom we can depend, I hope.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Give me a uniform of one of these musketeers and help me to put it on.”

The valet went out as silently as he had entered and appeared in a few minutes bringing the dress demanded.

The cardinal, in deep thought and in silence, began to take off the robes of state he had assumed in order to be present at the sitting of parliament, and to attire himself in the military coat, which he wore with a certain degree of easy grace, owing to his former campaigns in Italy.  When he was completely dressed he said: 

“Send hither Monsieur d’Artagnan.”

The valet went out of the room, this time by the centre door, but still as silently as before; one might have fancied him an apparition.

When he was left alone the cardinal looked at himself in the glass with a feeling of self-satisfaction.  Still young —­ for he was scarcely forty-six years of age —­ he possessed great elegance of form and was above the middle height; his complexion was brilliant and beautiful; his glance full of expression; his nose, though large, was well proportioned; his forehead broad and majestic; his hair, of a chestnut color, was curled slightly; his beard, which was darker than his hair, was turned carefully with a curling iron, a practice that greatly improved it.  After a short time the cardinal arranged his shoulder belt, then looked with great complacency at his hands, which were most elegant and of which he took the greatest care; and throwing on one side the large kid gloves tried on at first, as belonging to the uniform, he put on others of silk only.  At this instant the door opened.

“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said the valet-de-chambre.

An officer, as he spoke, entered the apartment.  He was a man between thirty-nine and forty years of age, of medium height but a very well proportioned figure; with an intellectual and animated physiognomy; his beard black, and his hair turning gray, as often happens when people have found life either too gay or too sad, more especially when they happen to be of swart complexion.

D’Artagnan advanced a few steps into the apartment.

How perfectly he remembered his former entrance into that very room!  Seeing, however, no one there except a musketeer of his own troop, he fixed his eyes upon the supposed soldier, in whose dress, nevertheless, he recognized at the first glance the cardinal.