D’Artagnan took the paper hesitatingly， and cast his eyes over it.
It was a lieutenant’s commission in the musketeers.
D’Artagnan fell at the cardinal’s feet.
“Monseigneur，” said he， “my life is yours！ Henceforward dispose of it. But I do not deserve this favour which you bestow on me. I have three friends who are more meritorious and more worthy—”
“You are an honest fellow， D’Artagnan，” interrupted the cardinal， tapping him familiarly on the shoulder， charmed at having subdued this rebellious nature. “Do with this commission what you will. Only remember that though the name is left blank I give it to you.”
“I shall never forget it，” replied D’Artagnan. “Your Eminence may be certain of that.”
The cardinal turned round and said in a loud voice，
“Rochefort！”
The chevalier， who doubtless was behind the door， entered immediately.
“Rochefort，” said the cardinal， “you see M. d’Artagnan. I receive him among the number of my friends. Shake hands， then， and be prudent， if you wish to preserve your heads.”
Rochefort and D’Artagnan saluted each other distantly， but the cardinal was there observing them with his vigilant eye.
They left the chamber at the same time.
“We shall meet again， shall we not， sir？”
“When you please，” said D’Artagnan.
“An opportunity will offer，” replied Rochefort.
“What’s that？” said the cardinal， opening the door.
The two men smiled at each other， shook hands， and bowed to his Eminence.
“We were beginning to grow impatient，” said Athos.
“Here I am， friends，” replied D’Artagnan—“not only free， but in favour.”
“Will you tell us about it？”
“This evening.”
Accordingly， that same evening D’Artagnan repaired to the quarters of Athos， whom he found in a fair way of emptying his bottle of Spanish wine， an occupation which he religiously fulfilled every night.
He related what had taken place between the cardinal and himself， and drawing the commission from his pocket，
“Here， my dear Athos，” said he； “this naturally belongs to you.”
Athos smiled his sweet， fascinating smile.
“My friend，” said he， “for Athos this is too much， for the Comte de la Fère it is too little. Keep the commission； it is yours. Alas！ my God！ it has cost you enough.”
D’Artagnan left Athos’s room and went to Porthos’s.
He found him dressed in a magnificent coat covered with splendid embroidery， looking at himself in a glass.
“Ah， ha！” exclaimed Porthos； “it is you， dear friend. How do you think these garments fit me？”
“Wonderfully well，” said D’Artagnan. “But I have come to offer you a dress which will suit you still better.”
“What’s that？” asked Porthos.
“That of a lieutenant in the musketeers.”
D’Artagnan related to Porthos his interview with the cardinal， and taking the commission from his pocket，
“Here， my dear，” said he； “write your name in it， and become my officer.”
Porthos cast his eyes over the commission， and returned it to D’Artagnan， to the young man’s great astonishment.
“Yes，” said he—“yes， that would flatter me very much， but I should not have time enough to enjoy the distinction. During our expedition to Béthune my duchess’s husband died； so that， my dear， since the coffer of the defunct is holding out its arms to me， I am going to marry the widow. Look here！ I was trying on my wedding suit. Keep your lieutenancy， my dear， keep it.”
The young man entered Aramis’s apartment.
He found him kneeling before a praying-desk， with his head leaning on an open prayer-book.
He described to him his interview with the cardinal， and for the third time drawing his commission from his pocket，
“You， our friend， our intelligence， our invisible protector，” said he， “accept this commission. You have deserved it more than any one by your wisdom and your counsels， which were always followed by such happy results.”
