During all this time nothing new happened in the camp at Rochelle. Only the king， who was much bored as usual， but perhaps a little more so in the camp than elsewhere， resolved to go incognito and spend the festival of St. Louis at St. Germain， and asked the cardinal to order him an escort of twenty musketeers only. The cardinal， who was sometimes affected by the king’s unrest， granted this leave of absence with great pleasure to his royal lieutenant， who promised to return about the 15th of September.
M. de Tréville， on being informed by his Eminence， packed his portmanteau， and as， without knowing the cause， he knew the great desire and even imperative need that his friends had of returning to Paris， he fixed on them， of course， to form part of the escort.
The four young men heard the news a quarter of an hour after M. de Tréville， for they were the first to whom he communicated it. Then D’Artagnan appreciated the favour the cardinal had conferred on him by transferring him at last to the musketeers， for had it not been for that circumstance， he would have been forced to remain in the camp while his companions left it.
His impatience to return toward Paris， of course， had for its cause the danger which Madame Bonacieux would run of meeting at the convent of Béthune with milady， her mortal enemy. Aramis， therefore， as we have said， had written immediately to Marie Michon， the seamstress at Tours， who had such fine acquaintances， to obtain from the queen permission for Madame Bonacieux to leave the convent， and to retire either into Lorraine or Belgium. They had not long to wait for an answer， and eight or ten days later Aramis received the following letter：
“My dear Cousin，—Here is my sister’s permission to withdraw our little servant from the convent of Béthune， the air of which you think does not agree with her. My sister sends you her permission with great pleasure， for she is very fond of the little girl， to whom she intends to be more serviceable hereafter.—I salute you，
“Marie Michon.”
In this letter was enclosed an order conceived in these terms：
“The superior of the convent of Béthune will place in the hands of the person who shall present this note to her the novice who entered the convent on my recommendation and under my patronage.
“At the Louvre， August 10th， 1628.
“Anne.”
Their joy was great. They sent their lackeys on in advance with the baggage， and set out on the morning of the 16th.
The cardinal accompanied his Majesty from Surgères to Mauze， and there the king and his minister took leave of each other with great demonstrations of friendship.
At length the escort passed through Paris on the 23rd， in the night. The king thanked M. de Tréville， and permitted him to give out furloughs of four days， on condition that not one of those so favoured should appear in any public place， under penalty of the Bastille.
The first four furloughs granted， as may be imagined， were to our friends. Moreover， Athos obtained of M. de Tréville six days instead of four， and got these six days lengthened by two nights more， for they set out on the 24th at five o’clock in the evening， and as a further kindness， M. de Tréville post-dated the furlough to the morning of the 25th.
On the evening of the 25th， as they were entering Arras， and as D’Artagnan was dismounting at the tavern of the Golden Harrow to drink a glass of wine， a horseman came out of the post-yard， where he had just had a relay， starting off at a gallop， with a fresh horse， on the road to Paris. At the moment he was passing through the gateway into the street the wind blew open the cloak in which he was wrapped， though it was August， and lifted his hat， which the traveller seized with his hand just as it left his head， and pulled it down quickly over his eyes.
D’Artagnan， who had his eyes fixed on this man， became very pale， and let his glass fall.
“What is the matter， sir？” asked Planchet.—“Oh， come， gentlemen， gentlemen！ My master is ill！”
The three friends hastened to D’Artagnan， but instead of finding him ill， met him running for his horse. They stopped him at the door.
“Now， where the devil are you going in this way？” cried Athos.
“It is he！” cried D’Artagnan， pale with passion， and with the sweat on his brow； “it is he！ Let me overtake him！”
“He—who？” asked Athos.
“He—my man！”
“What man？”
“That cursed man， my evil genius， whom I have always seen when threatened by some misfortune； he who accompanied the horrible woman when I met her for the first time； he whom I was seeking when I offended our friend Athos； he whom I saw on the very morning of the day Madame Bonacieux was carried off！ I just saw him！ It is he！ I recognized him when his cloak blew open！”
“The devil！” said Athos musingly.
“To horse， gentlemen， to horse！ Let us pursue him！ We shall overtake him！”
“My dear friend，” said Aramis， “remember that he’s gone in an opposite direction to that in which we are going； that he has a fresh horse， and ours are fatigued； that consequently we shall disable our own horses without even the chance of overtaking him. Let the man go， D’Artagnan； let us save the woman.”
“Hello， sir！” cried an hostler， running out and looking after the unknown—“hello， sir！ here is a paper which dropped out of your hat. Hello， sir！ Hello！”
“Friend，” said D’Artagnan， “a half-pistole for that paper！”
“Faith， sir， with great pleasure！ Here it is！”
The hostler， delighted with the good day’s work he had done， went into the yard again. D’Artagnan unfolded the paper.
“Well？” eagerly demanded all his three friends， surrounding him.
“Only one word！” said D’Artagnan.
“Yes，” said Aramis； “but that one word is the name of some town or village.”
“Armentiéres！” read Porthos—“Armentiéres！ I don’t know it.”
“And that name of a town or village is written in her hand！” cried Athos.
“Come on！ come on！” said D’Artagnan； “let us keep that paper carefully； perhaps I have not lost my last pistole. To horse， my friends， to horse！”
And the four friends galloped off on the road to Béthune.
