"That poor little diamond was
worth seven thousand livres?"

"It appears so," said Athos, "since here they are. I don't suppose that
our friend d'Artagnan has added any of his own to the amount."

"But, gentlemen, in all this," said d'Artagnan, "we do not think of the
queen. Let us take some heed of the welfare of her dear Buckingham. That
is the least we owe her."

"That's true," said Athos; "but that concerns Aramis."

"Well," replied the latter, blushing, "what must I say?"

"Oh, that's simple enough!" replied Athos. "Write a second letter for
that clever personage who lives at Tours."

Aramis resumed his pen, reflected a little, and wrote the following
lines, which he immediately submitted to the approbation of his friends.

"My dear cousin."

"Ah, ah!" said Athos. "This clever person is your relative, then?"

"Cousin-german."

"Go on, to your cousin, then!"

Aramis continued:

"My dear Cousin, His Eminence, the cardinal, whom God preserve for the
happiness of France and the confusion of the enemies of the kingdom, is
on the point of putting an end to the hectic rebellion of La Rochelle.
It is probable that the succor of the English fleet will never even
arrive in sight of the place. I will even venture to say that I am
certain M. de Buckingham will be prevented from setting out by some
great event. His Eminence is the most illustrious politician of
times past, of times present, and probably of times to come. He would
extinguish the sun if the sun incommoded him. Give these happy tidings
to your sister, my dear cousin. I have dreamed that the unlucky
Englishman was dead. I cannot recollect whether it was by steel or by
poison; only of this I am sure, I have dreamed he was dead, and you know
my dreams never deceive me. Be assured, then, of seeing me soon return."

"Capital!" cried Athos; "you are the king of poets, my dear Aramis. You
speak like the Apocalypse, and you are as true as the Gospel. There is
nothing now to do but to put the address to this letter."

"That is easily done," said Aramis.

He folded the letter fancifully, and took up his pen and wrote:

"To Mlle. Michon, seamstress, Tours."

The three friends looked at one another and laughed; they were caught.

"Now," said Aramis, "you will please to understand, gentlemen, that
Bazin alone can carry this letter to Tours. My cousin knows nobody but
Bazin, and places confidence in nobody but him; any other person would
fail. Bes