at St. Cloud, in front of the pavilion which stands at the corner of the house of M. d’Estrees. — C.B.”

While reading this letter, d’Artagnan felt his heart dilated and compressed by that delicious spasm which tortures and caresses the hearts of lovers.

It was the first billet he had received; it was the first rendezvous that had been granted him. His heart, swelled by the intoxication of joy, felt ready to dissolve away at the very gate of that terrestrial paradise called Love!

“Well, monsieur,” said Planchet, who had observed his master grow red and pale successively, “did I not guess truly? Is it not some bad affair?”

“You are mistaken, Planchet,” replied d’Artagnan;