“Good God!” cried he, laughing, “I quite despair of my poor Michon; she will never write like M. de Voiture.”
“What does you mean by boor Michon?” said the Swiss, who was chatting with the four friends when the letter came.
“Oh, pardieu , less than nothing,” said Aramis; “a charming little seamstress, whom I love dearly and from whose hand I requested a few lines as a sort of keepsake.”
“The duvil!” said the Swiss, “if she iz as great a lady as her writing is large, you are a lucky fellow, gomrade!”
Aramis read the letter, and passed it to Athos.
“See what she writes to me, Athos,” said he.
Athos cast a glance over the epistle, and to disperse all the suspicions that might have been created, read aloud:
My Cousin —My sister and I are skillful in interpreting dreams, and even entertain great fear of them; but of yours it may be said, I hope, every dream is an illusion. Adieu! Take care of yourself, and act so that we may from time to time hear you spoken of.
“And what dream does she mean?” asked the dragoon, who had approached during the reading.
“Yez; what’s the dream?” said the Swiss.
“Well, pardieu !” said Aramis, “it was only this: I had a dream, and I related it to her.”
“Yez, yez,” said the Swiss; “it’s simple enough to dell a dream, but I neffer dream.”