“And so am I,” replied Athos; “my only regret is not having seen D’Artagnan; but the rascal is so cunning, he might have guessed our project.”
When supper was over Blaisois entered. “Sir,” said he, “here is Monsieur d’Artagnan’s answer.”
“But I did not tell you there would be an answer, stupid!” said Athos.
“And I set off without waiting for one, but he called me back and gave me this;” and he presented a little leather bag, plump and giving out a golden jingle.
Athos opened it and began by drawing forth a little note, written in these terms:
“My dear Count,—When one travels, and especially for three months, one never has a superfluity of money. Now, recalling former times of mutual distress, I send you half my purse; it is money to obtain which I made Mazarin sweat. Don’t make a bad use of it, I entreat you.
“As to what you say about not seeing you again, I believe not a word of it; with such a heart as yours—and such a sword—one passes through the valley of the shadow of death a dozen times, unscathed and unalarmed. Au revoir, not farewell.
“It is unnecessary to say that from the day I saw Raoul I loved him; nevertheless, believe that I heartily pray that I may not become to him a father, however much I might be proud of such a son.
“Your
“D’Artagnan.