to bed. Neither was
he one of those who think that the necessary silence of the night brings
counsel with it. In the night he slept, but in the morning, refreshed
and calm, he was inspired with his clearest views of everything. It
was long since he had any reason for his morning's inspiration, but he
always slept all night long. At daybreak he awoke and took a turn around
his room.

"In '43," he said, "just before the death of the late cardinal, I
received a letter from Athos. Where was I then? Let me see. Oh! at the
siege of Besancon I was in the trenches. He told me--let me think--what
was it? That he was living on a small estate--but where? I was just
reading the name of the place when the wind blew my letter away, I
suppose to the Spaniards; there's no use in thinking any more about
Athos. Let me see: with regard to Porthos, I received a letter from him,
too. He invited me to a hunting party on his property in the month of
September, 1646. Unluckily, as I was then in Bearn, on account of my
father's death, the letter followed me there. I had left Bearn when it
arrived and I never received it until the month of April, 1647; and as
the invitation was for September, 1646, I couldn't accept it. Let me
look for this letter; it must be with my title deeds."

D'Artagnan opened an old casket which stood in a corner of the room, and
which was full of parchments referring to an estate during a period
of two hundred years lost to his family. He uttered an exclamation
of delight, for the large handwriting of Porthos was discernible, and
underneath some lines traced by his worthy spouse.

D'Artagnan eagerly searched for the heading of this letter; it was dated
from the Chateau du Vallon.

Porthos had forgotten that any other address was necessary; in his pride
he fancied that every one must know the Chateau du Vallon.

"Devil take the vain fellow," said D'Artagnan. "However, I had better
find him out first, since he can't want money. Athos must have become
an idiot by this time from drinking. Aramis must have worn himself to a
shadow of his former self by constant genuflexion."

He cast his eyes again on the letter. There was a postscript:

"I write by the same courier to our worthy friend Aramis in his
convent."

"In his convent! What convent? There are about two hundred in Paris and
three thousand in France; and then, perhaps, on entering the convent
he changed his name. Ah! if I were but learned in theology I should