“For you, Monsieur,” said Planchet, presenting the billet to the young man.
“For me?” said d’Artagnan; “are you sure of that?”
“ Pardieu , Monsieur, I can’t be more sure. The soubrette said, ‘For your master.’ I have no other master but you; so—a pretty little lass, my faith, is that soubrette!”
D’Artagnan opened the letter, and read these words:
A person who takes more interest in you than she is willing to confess wishes to know on what day it will suit you to walk in the forest? Tomorrow, at the Hôtel Field of the Cloth of Gold, a lackey in black and red will wait for your reply.
“Oh!” said d’Artagnan, “this is rather warm; it appears that Milady and I are anxious about the health of the same person. Well, Planchet, how is the good M. de Wardes? He is not dead, then?”
“No, Monsieur, he is as well as a man can be with four sword wounds in his body; for you, without question, inflicted four upon the dear gentleman, and he is still very weak, having lost almost all his blood. As I said, Monsieur, Lubin did not know me, and told me our adventure from one end to the other.”
“Well done, Planchet! you are the king of lackeys. Now jump onto your horse, and let us overtake the carriage.”
This did not take long. At the end of five minutes they perceived the carriage drawn up by the roadside; a cavalier, richly dressed, was close to the door.