“you are killing me!”

“Well, here it is at last!” said d’Artagnan, as he drew the letter from his pocket.

Aramis made a bound, seized the letter, read it, or rather devoured it, his countenance radiant.

“This same waiting maid seems to have an agreeable style,” said the messenger, carelessly.

“Thanks, d’Artagnan, thanks!” cried Aramis, almost in a state of delirium. “She was forced to return to Tours; she is not faithless; she still loves me! Come, my friend, come, let me embrace you. Happiness almost stifles me!”

The two friends began to dance around the venerable St. Chrysostom, kicking about famously the sheets