A Family Affair
Athos had invented the phrase， family affair. A family affair was not subject to the cardinal’s investigation； a family affair concerned no one； people might employ themselves in a family affair before all the world.
Thus Athos had discovered the words， family affair.
Aramis had discovered the idea， the lackeys.
Porthos had discovered the means， the diamond.
D’Artagnan alone had discovered nothing—he， ordinarily， the most inventive of the four； but it must also be said that the mere mention of milady paralysed him.
Oh no！ we were mistaken； he had discovered a purchaser for his diamond.
The breakfast at M. de Tréville’s was delightfully gay. D’Artagnan was already in his uniform， for as he was nearly of the same size as Aramis， and as Aramis had bought two of everything， he furnished his friend with a complete outfit.
D’Artagnan would have been at the height of his wishes if he had not constantly seen milady， like a dark cloud， on the horizon.
After breakfast it was agreed that they should meet again in the evening at Athos’s lodging， and would there end the affair.
D’Artagnan passed the day in exhibiting his musketeer’s uniform in every street of the camp.
In the evening， at the appointed hour， the four friends met. There remained only three things to be decided on—what they should write to milady’s brother； what they should write to the clever person at Tours； and which should be the lackeys to carry the letters.
“Draw up this note for us， Aramis，” said D’Artagnan. “But be concise.”
“I ask nothing better，” said Aramis， with that ingenuous self-confidence which every poet has； “but let me know what I am about. I have heard， in one way and another， that Lord Winter’s sister-in-law was vile. It was even proved to me when I overheard her conversation with the cardinal.”
“Worse than vile， ye gods！” said Athos.
“But，” continued Aramis， “the details escape me.”
D’Artagnan told him all he needed to know about milady.
Aramis accordingly took the pen， reflected for a few moments， wrote eight or ten lines in a charming little feminine hand， and then， in a soft， slow voice， as if each word had been scrupulously weighed， he read the following：
“Milord.—The person who writes these lines had the honour of crossing swords with you in a little yard near the Rue d’Enfer. As you have several times since been kind enough to call yourself that person’s friend， he thinks it his duty to respond to your friendship by sending you important information. Twice you have almost been the victim of a near relative whom you believe to be your heir， because you do not know that before she contracted a marriage in England she was already married in France. But the third time， which is this， you may succumb. Your relative left Rochelle for England during the night. Be on the watch for her arrival， for she has great and terrible projects. If you absolutely insist on knowing what she is capable of， read her past history upon her left shoulder.”
“Well， now， that’s wonderfully well done，” said Athos； “really， my dear Aramis， you have the pen of a secretary of state. Lord Winter will now be upon his guard， if the letter should reach him； and even if it should fall into the cardinal’s hands， we shall not be compromised. But as the lackey who goes may make us believe he has been to London and may stop at Chatellerault， let us give him only half the sum with the letter， promising that he shall have the other half in exchange for the reply. Have you the diamond？” continued Athos.
“I have what is still better： I have the value of it.”
And D’Artagnan threw the purse on the table. At the sound of the gold Aramis raised his eyes and Porthos started； Athos remained unmoved.
“How much is there in that purse？”
“Seven thousand livres， in louis of twelve francs.”
“Seven thousand livres！” cried Porthos—“that wretched little diamond was worth seven thousand livres？”
“It seems so，” said Athos， “since here they are. I don’t suppose that our friend D’Artagnan has added any of his own.”
“But， gentlemen， in all this，” said D’Artagnan， “we have no thought of the queen. Let us look a little after her dear Buckingham’s health. That is the least we owe her.”
“You are right，” said Athos； “but that falls to Aramis.”
“Well，” replied the latter， “what must I do？”
“Oh， it’s simple enough，” replied Athos. “Write a second letter for that clever personage who lives at Tours.”
Aramis resumed his pen， reflected a little more， and wrote the following lines， which he immediately submitted to his friends’ approbation，“My dear cousin.”
“Ah， ha！” said Athos； “this clever lady is your relative， then？”
“She’s my cousin-german.”
“Good—for 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 finishing up with the heretic rebels of Rochelle； it is probable that the aid of the English fleet will never even arrive in sight of the place. I will even venture to say that I am certain the Duke of Buckingham will be prevented from starting for there 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 that cursed Englishman was dead. I cannot recollect whether it was by steel or by poison； only I am sure of this： 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 for you to do but to put the address on your letter.”
“That’s easily done，” said Aramis.
He folded the letter coquettishly， took it， and wrote，“To Mademoiselle Michon， seamstress， Tours.”
The three friends looked at each other and laughed； they were caught.
