lf that he went
straight to a house set out with all the attributes of a suburban
tavern, and knocked at the door.

In the meantime d'Artagnan, who had plunged into a bypath, continued his
route and reached St. Cloud; but instead of following the main street
he turned behind the chateau, reached a sort of retired lane, and found
himself soon in front of the pavilion named. It was situated in a very
private spot. A high wall, at the angle of which was the pavilion,
ran along one side of this lane, and on the other was a little garden
connected with a poor cottage which was protected by a hedge from
passers-by.

He gained the place appointed, and as no signal had been given him by
which to announce his presence, he waited.

Not the least noise was to be heard; it might be imagined that he was
a hundred miles from the capital. D'Artagnan leaned against the hedge,
after having cast a glance behind it. Beyond that hedge, that garden,
and that cottage, a dark mist enveloped with its folds that immensity
where Paris slept--a vast void from which glittered a few luminous
points, the funeral stars of that hell!

But for d'Artagnan all aspects were clothed happily, all ideas wore
a smile, all shades were diaphanous. The appointed hour was about to
strike. In fact, at the end of a few minutes the belfry of St. Cloud
let fall slowly ten strokes from its sonorous jaws. There was something
melancholy in this brazen voice pouring out its lamentations in the
middle of the night; but each of those strokes, which made up the
expected hour, vibrated harmoniously to the heart of the young man.

His eyes were fixed upon the little pavilion situated at the angle of
the wall, of which all the windows were closed with shutters, except
one on the first story. Through this window shone a mild light which
silvered the foliage of two or three linden trees which formed a group
outside the park. There could be no doubt that behind this little
window, which threw forth such friendly beams, the pretty Mme. Bonacieux
expected him.

Wrapped in this sweet idea, d'Artagnan waited half an hour without the
least impatience, his eyes fixed upon that charming little abode of
which he could perceive a part of the ceiling with its gilded moldings,
attesting the elegance of the rest of the apartment.

The belfry of St. Cloud sounded half past ten.

This time, without knowing why, d'Artagnan felt a cold shiver run
through his veins. Perhaps the cold beg