The day, however, passed away; and the evening came on slowly, but finally it came. The bars were filled with drinkers. Athos, who had pocketed his share of the diamond, seldom quit the Parpaillot. He had found in M. de Busigny, who, by the by, had given them a magnificent dinner, a partner worthy of his company. They were playing together, as usual, when seven o’clock sounded; the patrol was heard passing to double the posts. At half past seven the retreat was sounded.
“We are lost,” said d’Artagnan, in the ear of Athos.
“You mean to say we have lost,” said Athos, quietly, drawing four pistoles from his pocket and throwing them upon the table. “Come, gentlemen,” said he, “they are beating the tattoo. Let us to bed!”
And Athos went out of the Parpaillot, followed by d’Artagnan. Aramis came behind, giving his arm to Porthos. Aramis mumbled verses to himself, and Porthos from time to time pulled a hair or two from his mustache, in sign of despair.
But all at once a shadow appeared in the darkness the outline of which was familiar to d’Artagnan, and a well-known voice said, “Monsieur, I have brought your cloak; it is chilly this evening.”
“Planchet!” cried d’Artagnan, beside himself with joy.
“Planchet!” repeated Aramis and Porthos.
“Well, yes, Planchet, to be sure,” said Athos, “what is there so astonishing in that? He promised to be back by eight o’clock, and eight is striking. Bravo, Planchet, you are a lad of your word, and if ever you leave your master, I will promise you a place in my service.”
“Oh, no, never,” said Planchet, “I will never leave M. d’Artagnan.”
At the same time d’Artagnan felt that Planchet slipped a note into his hand.