Chapter 13 - The Man of Meung
There was in all this, as may have been noticed, one personage of whom, notwithstanding his precarious position,

we have appeared to take but very little notice. This personage was M. Bonacieux, the respectable martyr of the

political and amorous intrigues which were getting into such a tangle in this gallant and chivalric period.
The officers who had arrested him conducted him straight to the Bastille, where, all of a tremble, he was made to

pass before a platoon of soldiers who were loading their muskets.
Thence, introduced into a half-subterranean gallery, he became, on the part of those who had brought him, the

object of the grossest insults and the harshest treatment. The bailiffs perceived that they had not to deal with a

nobleman, and they treated him like a very beggar.
At the end of half an hour, or thereabouts, an officer came to put an end to his tortures, but not to his anxiety,

by giving the order to lead M. Bonacieux to the examination chamber.
Ordinarily, prisoners were questioned in their own cells, but with M. Bonacieux they did not use so many

formalities.
In the evening, at the moment when he had made his mind up to lie down upon the bed, he heard steps in his

corridor. These steps drew near to his cell, the door was thrown open, and the guards appeared.
“Follow me,” said an officer, who came behind the guards.
“Ah, my God, my God!” murmured the poor mercer, “now, indeed, I am lost!”
And, mechanically and without resistance, he followed the guards who came for him.
He passed along the corridor, crossed a first court, then a second part of the building. At length, at the gate of

the outer court, he found a carriage surrounded by four guards on horseback. They made him get into this carriage,

the officer placed himself by his side, the door was locked, and both were left in a rolling prison.
The carriage was put in motion as slowly as a funeral car. Through the padlocked gratings the prisoner could see

the houses and the pavement, that was all; but, true Parisian as he was, Bonacieux could recognize every street by

the mounting stones, the signs, and the lamps.
The carriage, which had been stopped for a minute, resumed its way, threaded the Rue Saint Honoré, turned the Rue

des Bons Enfants, and stopped before a low door.
The door opened, two guards received Bonacieux in their arms from the officer who supported him. They carried him

along an alley, up a flight of stairs, and deposited him in an antechamber.
All these movements had been effected mechanically, as far as he was concerned. He had moved along as if in a

dream; he had had a glimpse of objects as though through a fog; his ears had perceived sounds without

comprehending them; he might have been executed at that moment without his making a single gesture in his own

defence, or his uttering a cry to implore mercy.
He therefore remained upon the bench, with his back leaning against the wall and his hands hanging down, exactly

on the spot where the guards had placed him.
On looking round him, however, as he could see no threatening object, as nothing indicated that he ran any real

danger, as the bench was comfortably covered with a well-stuffed cushion, as the wall was ornamented with

beautiful Cordova leather, and as large red damask curtains, held back by gold fastenings, floated before the

window, he perceived by degrees that his fear was exaggerated, and he began to turn his head to the right and the

left, upwards and downwards.
At this movement, which nobody opposed, he gained a little courage, and ventured to draw up one leg and then the

other. At length, with the help of both hands, he raised himself up upon the bench, and found himself upon his

feet.
At that moment an officer of pleasant appearance opened a door, continued to exchange some words with a person in

the next room, and then came up to the prisoner.
“Is your name Bonacieux?” said he.
“Yes, officer,” stammered the mercer, more dead than alive, “at your service.”
“Come in,” said the officer.
And he moved aside to let the mercer pass. The latter obeyed without reply, and entered the room, where it

appeared he was expected.
It was a large, close, and stifling cabinet, the walls furnished with arms offensive and defensive, and where

there was already a fire, although it was scarcely the end of September. A square table, covered with books and

papers, upon which was unrolled an immense plan of the city of Rochelle, occupied the centre of the apartment.
Standing before the fireplace was a man of middle height, of a haughty, proud mien, with piercing eyes, a broad

brow, and a thin face, which was made still longer by a royal (or imperial, as it is now called), surmounted by a

pair of moustaches. Although this man was scarcely thirty-six or thirty-seven years of age, hair, moustaches, and

royal all were growing grey. This man, though without a sword, had all the appearance of a soldier; and his buff

leather boots, still slightly covered with dust, showed that he had been on horseback in the course of the day.
This man was Armand Jean Duplessis, Cardinal Richelieu.
At first sight nothing indicated the cardinal, and it was impossible for those who did not know his face to guess

in whose presence they were.
“Is this Bonacieux?” asked he, after a moment of silence.
“Yes, monseigneur,” replied the officer.
“Very well. Give me those papers, and leave us.”
The officer took the papers pointed out from the table, gave them to him who asked for them, bowed to the ground,

and retired.
“Do you know who carried off your wife?” said the cardinal.
“No, monseigneur.”
“You have suspicions, nevertheless?”
“Yes, monseigneur.”
“Your wife has escaped. Did you know that?”
“No, monseigneur.”
“When you went to fetch your wife from the Louvre, did you always return directly home?”
“Scarcely ever. She had business to transact with linen-drapers, to whose shops I escorted her.”
“And how many were there of these linen-drapers?”
“Two, monseigneur.”
“And where did they live?”
“One Rue de Vaugirard, the other Rue de la Harpe.”
“Did you go into these houses with her?”
“Never, monseigneur; I waited at the door.”
“And what excuse did she make for thus going in alone?”
“She gave me none. She told me to wait, and I waited.”
“Should you know those doors again?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know the numbers?”
“Yes.”
“What are they?”
“No. 25 in the Rue de Vaugirard; 75 in the Rue de la Harpe.”
“Very well,” said the cardinal.
At these words he took up a silver bell and rang it. The officer entered.
“Go,” said he in a subdued voice, “and find Rochefort. Tell him to come to me immediately, if he has returned.

”
“The Count is here,” said the officer, “and wishes to speak instantly with your Eminence.”
“Let him come in, then—let him come in, then!” said the cardinal eagerly.
The officer rushed out of the apartment with that alacrity which all the cardinal’s servants displayed in obeying

him.
“To your Eminence!” murmured Bonacieux, rolling his eyes round in astonishment.
Five seconds had not elapsed after the disappearance of the officer when the door opened and a new personage

entered.
“It is he!” cried Bonacieux.
“He! What he?” asked the cardinal.
“The man who took away my wife!”
The cardinal rang a second time. The officer reappeared.
“Place this man in the care of his two guards, and let him wait till I send for him.”
The officer took Bonacieux by the arm, and led him into the antechamber, where he found his two guards.

The newly-introduced personage followed Bonacieux impatiently with his eyes till he was gone out, and the moment

the door closed he advanced eagerly toward the cardinal and said,
“They have seen each other.”
“Who?” asked his Eminence.
“He and she.”
“The queen and the duke?” cried Richelieu.
“Yes.”
“How did it take place?”
“At half-past twelve the queen was with her women—”
“Where?”
“In her bedchamber—”
“Go on.”
“When some one came and brought her a handkerchief from her dame de lingerie.”
“And then?”
“The queen immediately exhibited strong emotion, and, in spite of the rouge which covered her face, grew pale.”
“Go on, go on!”
“She, however, rose, and with a trembling voice, ‘Ladies,’ she said, ‘wait for me ten minutes; I shall soon

return.’ She then opened the door of her alcove and went out.”
“Did none of her women accompany her?”
“Only Do?a Estefana.”
“And she afterwards returned?”
“Yes; but only to take a little rosewood casket, with her monogram upon it, and to go out again immediately.”
“And when she finally returned, did she bring that casket with her?”
“No.”
“Does Madame de Lannoy know what was in that casket?”
“Yes; the diamond studs which his Majesty gave the queen.”
“And she came back without this casket?”
“Yes.”
“Madame de Lannoy, then, is of the opinion that she gave them to Buckingham?”
“She is sure of it.”
“Do you know where the Duchesse de Chevreuse and the Duke of Buckingham were concealed?”
“No, monseigneur. My people could tell me nothing positive in regard to that.”
“But I know.”
“You, monseigneur?”
“Yes, or at least I suspect. They were, one in the Rue de Vaugirard, No. 25, the other in the Rue de la Harpe,

No. 75.”
“Does your Eminence wish them both to be arrested?”
“It is too late; they will be gone.”
“But still we can make sure of it.”
“Take ten men of my guards, and search both houses thoroughly.”
“Instantly, monseigneur.”
The cardinal, upon being left alone, reflected for an instant, and then rang the bell a third time.
The same officer appeared.
“Bring the prisoner in again,” said the cardinal.
M. Bonacieux was introduced anew, and upon a sign from the cardinal the officer retired.
“You have deceived me!” said the cardinal sternly.
“I,” cried Bonacieux—“I deceive your Eminence!”
“Your wife, when going to Rue de Vaugirard and Rue de la Harpe, did not go to any linen-drapers.”
“Then where, in God’s name, did she go?”
“She went to the house of the Duchesse de Chevreuse, and she went to the Duke of Buckingham’s.”
“Yes,” cried Bonacieux, recalling all the circumstances—“yes, that’s it. Your Eminence is right. I told my

wife several times that it was surprising that linen-drapers should live in such houses—in houses that had no

signs—and every time she began to laugh. Ah, monseigneur!” continued Bonacieux, throwing himself at his Eminence

’s feet—“ah, how truly you are the cardinal, the great cardinal, the man of genius whom all the world reveres!

”
However contemptible might be the triumph gained over so vulgar a being as Bonacieux, the cardinal did not the

less enjoy it for an instant. Then, almost immediately, as if a new thought had entered his mind, a smile passed

over his lips, and reaching out his hand to the mercer,
“Rise, my friend,” said he; “you are an honest man.”
“The cardinal has touched me with his hand! I have touched the hand of the great man!” cried Bonacieux. “The

great man has called me his friend!”
“Yes, my friend, yes,” said the cardinal, with that paternal tone which he sometimes knew how to assume, but

which deceived only those who did not know him; “and as you have been unjustly suspected—well, you must be

indemnified. Here! take this purse of a hundred pistoles, and pardon me.”
“I pardon you, monseigneur!” said Bonacieux, hesitating to take the purse, fearing, doubtless, that this

pretended gift was only a joke. “But you are free to have me arrested, you are free to have me tortured, you are

free to have me hung. You are the master, and I should not have the least word to say about it. Pardon you,

monseigneur! you cannot mean that.”
“Ah, my dear Monsieur Bonacieux, you are generous in this matter, and I thank you for it. So you will take this

purse, and you will go away without being too much dissatisfied with your treatment?”
“I shall go away enchanted.”
“Farewell, then—that is to say, for the present, for I hope we shall meet again.”
“Whenever monseigneur wishes. I am always at his Eminence’s orders.”
“And that will be frequently, I assure you, for I have found something extremely agreeable in your conversation.

”
“O monseigneur!”
“Au revoir, Monsieur Bonacieux, au revoir!”
And the cardinal made him a sign with his hand, to which Bonacieux replied by bowing to the ground. He then backed

himself out, and when he was in the antechamber the cardinal heard him, in his enthusiasm, crying aloud, “Long

life to monseigneur! Long life to his Eminence! Long life to the great cardinal!” The cardinal listened with a

smile to this vociferous manifestation of M. Bonacieux’s enthusiasm; and then, when Bonacieux’s cries were no

longer audible.
“Good!” said he; “here’s a man who, henceforward, would lay down his life for me.”
Left alone, the cardinal sat down again, wrote a letter, which he sealed with his private seal, then rang the

bell. The officer entered for the fourth time.
“Have Vitray sent to me,” said he, “and tell him to be ready for a journey.”
An instant after the man he required was before him, booted and spurred.
“Vitray,” said he, “you will go with all speed to London. You must not stop an instant on the way. You will

deliver this letter to milady. Here is an order for two hundred pistoles; call upon my treasurer and get the

money. You shall have as much again if you are back within six days, and have executed your commission well.”
The messenger, without replying a single word, bowed, took the letter, with the order for the two hundred

pistoles, and went out.
These were the contents of the letter:
“Milady,—Be at the first ball at which the Duke of Buckingham shall be present. He will wear on his doublet

twelve diamond studs. Get as near to him as you can, and cut off two of them.
“As soon as these studs are in your possession, inform me.”

Chapter 14 - Magistrates and Soldiers
It is well known how violent the king’s prejudices were against the queen, and how skilfully these prejudices

were kept up by the cardinal, who, in affairs of intrigue, mistrusted women much more than men. One of the

principal causes of this prejudice was the friendship of Anne of Austria for Madame de Chevreuse. These two women

gave him more uneasiness than the war with Spain, the quarrel with England, or the embarrassment of the finances.

In his eyes and to his perfect conviction, Madame de Chevreuse not only served the queen in her political

intrigues, but—and this troubled him still more—in her love affairs.
At the first word the cardinal uttered concerning Madame de Chevreuse—who, though exiled to Tours, and believed

to be in that city, had come to Paris, remained there five days, and had outwitted the police—the king flew into

a furious passion. Although capricious and unfaithful, the king wished to be called Louis the Just and Louis the

Chaste. Posterity will have a difficulty in understanding this character, which history explains only by facts and

never by reasonings.
But when the cardinal added that not only Madame de Chevreuse had been in Paris, but also that the queen had

communicated with her by the means of one of those mysterious correspondences which at that time was called a

cabal, Louis XIII could contain himself no longer; he took a step toward the queen’s apartment, showing that pale

and mute indignation which, when it broke out, led this prince to the commission of the coldest cruelty.
And yet, in all this, the cardinal had not yet said a word about the Duke of Buckingham. But deeming that the

moment was now right, he said: “Sire, Buckingham has been in Paris five days, and left it only this morning.”
It is impossible to form an idea of the impression these few words made upon Louis XIII. He grew pale and red

alternately.
“Buckingham in Paris!” cried he; “and what does he come to do there?”
“To conspire, no doubt, with your enemies, the Huguenots and the Spaniards.”
“No, zounds, no! To conspire against my honour with Madame de Chevreuse, Madame de Longueville, and the Condés.”
“O sire, what an idea! The queen is too prudent, and, besides, loves your Majesty too well.”
“Woman is weak, cardinal,” said the king; “and as to loving me much, I have my own opinion respecting that

love.”
“I none the less maintain,” said the cardinal, “that the Duke of Buckingham came to Paris for a project purely

political.”
“And I am sure that he came for quite another purpose, cardinal. But if the queen be guilty, let her tremble!”
“I believe, and I repeat it to your Majesty, that the queen conspires against her king’s power, but I have not

said against his honour.”
“And I—I tell you against both; I tell you the queen does not love me; I tell you she loves another; I tell you

she loves that infamous Buckingham! Why did you not have him arrested while he was in Paris?”
“Arrest the duke! arrest the prime minister of King Charles I! Can you think of it, sire? What a scandal! And

suppose, then, the suspicions of your Majesty, which I still continue to doubt, should prove to have any

foundation, what a terrible disclosure, what a fearful scandal!”
“But since he played the part of a vagabond or a thief, he should have been—”
Louis XIII stopped, terrified at what he was to say; while Richelieu, stretching out his neck, waited in vain for

the word which had died on the lips of the king.
“He should have been—”
“Nothing,” said the king, “nothing. But all the time he was in Paris you, of course, did not lose sight of him?

”
“No, sire.”
“Where did he lodge?”
“Rue de la Harpe, No. 75.”
“Where is that?”
“Towards the Luxembourg.”
“And you are certain that the queen and he did not see each other?”
“I believe the queen to have too high a sense of her duty, sire. And there is a simple way to make sure.”
“What is that?”
“Give a ball; you know how much the queen loves dancing.” Then the cardinal added,—“By the way, sire, do not

forget to tell her Majesty, the evening before the ball, that you would like to see how her diamond studs become

her.”

Chapter 15 - Bonacieux’s Household
When the cardinal mentioned the diamond studs, Louis XIII was struck with his insistence, and began to fancy that

this recommendation concealed some mystery.
He went, then, to the queen, and, according to his custom, approached her with new threats against those who

surrounded her. Anne of Austria hung down her head, allowed the torrent to flow on without replying, and hoped

that it would finally cease of itself. But this was not what Louis XIII wanted. Louis XIII wanted a discussion,

from which some light or other might break, convinced as he was that the cardinal was practising some

dissimulation, and was preparing for him one of those terrible surprises which his Eminence was so skilful in

getting up. He arrived at this end by his persistence in accusation.
“But,” cried Anne of Austria, tired of these vague attacks—“but, sire, you do not tell me all that you have in

your heart. What have I done, then? Let me know what crime I have committed.”
The king, attacked in so direct a manner, did not know what to answer. He thought that this was the moment to

express the desire which he was to make only on the eve of the ball.
“Madame,” said he, with dignity, “there will shortly be a ball at the City Hall. I wish that, in honour to our

worthy provosts, you should appear at it in state dress, and particularly ornamented with the diamond studs which

I gave you on your birthday. That is my answer.”
It was a terrible answer. She became excessively pale, leaned her beautiful hand upon a stand, a hand which then

appeared like one of wax, and looking at the king, with terror in her eyes, she was unable to reply by a single

syllable.
“You hear, madame,” said the king, who enjoyed this embarrassment to its full extent, but without guessing the

cause—“you hear, madame?”
“Yes, sire, I hear,” stammered the queen.
“Very well,” said the king, retiring—“very well; I count on it.”
The queen made a curtsy, less from etiquette than because her knees were sinking under her.
“I am lost,” murmured the queen, “lost! for the cardinal knows all, and it is he who urges on the king, who as

yet knows nothing, but will soon know everything. I am lost! My God, my God!”
She knelt upon a cushion and prayed, with her head buried between her palpitating arms.
Thus, while contemplating the misfortune which threatened her and the abandonment in which she was left, she broke

out into sobs and tears.
“Can I be of no service to your Majesty?” said all at once a voice full of sweetness and pity.
The queen turned quickly round, for there could be no mistake in the tone of that voice. It was a friend who spoke

thus.
In fact, at one of the doors which opened into the queen’s apartment appeared the pretty Madame Bonacieux. She

had been engaged in arranging the dresses and linen in a closet when the king entered. She could not get out, and

had heard all.
The queen uttered a piercing cry at finding herself discovered, for in her trouble she did not at first recognize

the young woman who had been given to her by La Porte.
“Oh, fear nothing, madame!” said the young woman, clasping her hands, and weeping herself at the queen’s

sorrow; “I am your Majesty’s, body and soul, and however far I may be from you, however inferior may be my

position, I believe I have discovered a means of extricating your Majesty from your trouble.”
“You! O heaven, you!” cried the queen; “but look me in the face. I am betrayed on all sides. Can I trust in

you?”
“O madame!” cried the young woman, falling on her knees, “upon my soul, I am ready to die for your Majesty.”
This expression came from the very bottom of the heart, and, like the first, there was no mistaking it.
“Yes,” continued Madame Bonacieux—“yes, there are traitors here; but by the holy name of the Virgin, I swear

that none is more devoted to your Majesty than I am. Those studs which the king speaks of, you gave them to the

Duke of Buckingham, did you not? Those studs were in a little rosewood box, which he held under his arm? Am I

mistaken? Is it not so, madame?”
“Yes.”
“Well, those studs,” continued Madame Bonacieux, “we must have them back again.”
“Yes, without doubt, it is necessary,” cried the queen. “But what can be done? How can it be effected?”
“Some one must be sent to the duke.”
“But who, who? In whom can I trust?”
“Place confidence in me, madame. Do me that honour, my queen, and I will find a messenger.”
“But I must write.”
“Oh yes; that is indispensable. Two words from the hand of your Majesty and your own private seal.”
The queen ran to a little table, upon which were pens, ink, and paper. She wrote two lines, sealed the letter with

her private seal, and gave it to Madame Bonacieux.
“And now,” said the queen, “we are forgetting one very necessary thing.”
“What is that, madame?”
“Money.”
Madame Bonacieux blushed.
Anne of Austria ran to her jewel-case.
“Here,” said she—“here is a ring of great value, as I have been told. It came from my brother, the king of

Spain. It is mine, and I am at liberty to dispose of it. Take this ring, and turn it into money.”
“In an hour you shall be obeyed, madame.”
“You see the address,” said the queen, speaking so low that Madame Bonacieux could hardly hear what she said—“

To my Lord Duke of Buckingham, London.”
“The letter shall be given to him.”
“Generous girl!” cried Anne of Austria.
Madame Bonacieux kissed the queen’s hands, concealed the paper in the bosom of her dress, and disappeared with

the lightness of a bird.
Ten minutes afterwards she was at home. As she had not seen her husband since his liberation, she was ignorant of

the change that had taken place in him with respect to the cardinal—a change which had since been strengthened by

two or three visits from the Comte de Rochefort, who had become Bonacieux’s best friend, and who had persuaded

him without great difficulty that nothing culpable had been intended by the carrying off of his wife, but that it

was only a piece of political precaution.
She found Bonacieux alone.
Madame Bonacieux offered him her forehead to kiss.
“Let us talk a little,” said she.
“What!” said Bonacieux, astonished.
“Yes; I have something of great importance to tell you.”
“What! What brings you to me? Is it not the desire of seeing a husband again from whom you have been separated

for a week?” asked the mercer, very much piqued.
“Yes, that first, and other things afterwards.”
“Speak, then.”
“You must set out immediately. I will give you a paper which you must not part with on any account, and which you

will deliver into the proper hands.”
“And where am I to go?”
“London.”
“I go to London! You are joking. I have nothing to do in London.”
“But others require that you should go there.”
“But who are those others? I warn you that I will never again work in the dark, and that I will know not only to

what I expose myself, but for whom I expose myself.”
“An illustrious person sends you, an illustrious person awaits you. The recompense will exceed your expectations;

that is all I promise you.”
“More intrigues! nothing but intrigues! Thank you, madame; I am aware of them now. The cardinal has enlightened

me on that head.”
“The cardinal?” cried Madame Bonacieux. “Have you seen the cardinal?”
“He sent for me,” answered the mercer proudly.
“He ill-treated you, then? He threatened you?”
“He gave me his hand, and he called me his friend—his friend! Do you hear that, madame? I am a friend of the

great cardinal!”
“Of the great cardinal!”
“I am sorry for it, madame, but I acknowledge no other power than that of the great man whom I have the honour to

serve.”

“Ah, you are a cardinalist, then, sir, are you?” cried she; “and you serve the party of those who ill-treat

your wife and insult your queen?”
“Private interests are as nothing before the interests of all. I am for those who are saving the state,” said

Bonacieux emphatically.
“And do you know what that state is you talk about?” demanded Madame Bonacieux, shrugging her shoulders. “Be

satisfied with being a plain, straightforward bourgeois, and turn your attention toward that side which holds out

the greatest advantages.”
“Eh, eh!” said Bonacieux, slapping a plump, round bag, which gave back a silvery sound; “what do you think of

this, my lady preacher?”
“Where does that money come from?”
“Can’t you guess?”
“From the cardinal?”
“From him, and from my friend the Comte de Rochefort. But what do you require of me then? Come, let us see.”
“I have told you. You must set out instantly, sir; you must accomplish loyally the commission with which I deign

to charge you; and on that condition I pardon everything, I forget everything; and still further“—and she held

out her hand to him—“I give you my love again.”
“But, my dear love, reflect a little upon what you require of me. London is far from Paris, very far, and perhaps

the commission with which you charge me is not without dangers?”
“Of what consequence is that, if you avoid them?”
“Well, then, Madame Bonacieux,” said the mercer—“well, then, I positively refuse. Intrigues terrify me.”
Bonacieux fell into a profound reflection. He turned the two angers in his brain—the cardinal’s and the queen’

s. The cardinal’s predominated enormously.
“Well, I will give it up, then,” said the young woman, sighing. “It is well as it is; say no more about it.”
“Supposing, at least, you should tell me what I should have to do in London,” replied Bonacieux.
“It is of no use for you to know anything about it,” said the young woman, who drew back now by an instinctive

mistrust. “It was about one of those follies of interest to women, a purchase by which much might have been

gained.”
But the more the young woman fought shy of committing herself, the more important Bonacieux conceived to be the

secret which she declined to communicate to him. He resolved, then, that instant to hasten to the Comte de

Rochefort, and tell him that the queen was looking for a messenger to send to London.
“Pardon me for leaving you, my dear Madame Bonacieux,” said he; “but not knowing you would come to see me, I

had made an engagement with a friend. I shall soon return; and if you will wait only a few minutes for me, as soon

as I have concluded my business with that friend, I will come to get you; and as it is growing late, I will

conduct you back to the Louvre.”
“No, thank you, sir; you are not brave enough to be of any use to me whatever,” replied Madame Bonacieux. “I

shall return very safely to the Louvre by myself.”
“As you please, Madame Bonacieux,” said the mercer. “Shall I have the pleasure of seeing you soon again?”
“Yes; next week I hope my duties will afford me a little liberty, and I will take advantage of it to come and set

things to rights here, as they must be somewhat upset.”
“Very well; I shall expect you. You are not angry with me?”
“Who?—I? Oh, not the least in the world.”
“Farewell till then.”
“Till then.”
Bonacieux kissed his wife’s hand and set off at a quick pace.
“Well,” said Madame Bonacieux, when her husband had shut the street door and she found herself alone, “the only

thing still lacking that fool was to become a cardinalist! And I, who have answered for him to the queen—I, who

have promised my poor mistress—ah, my God! my God! she will take me for one of those wretches who swarm the

palace, and are placed about her as spies! Ah, Monsieur Bonacieux, I never did love you much, but now it is worse

than ever. I hate you! and by my word you shall pay for this!”
At the moment she spoke these words a rap on the ceiling made her raise her head, and a voice which reached her

through the ceiling cried,
“Dear Madame Bonacieux, open the little side door for me, and I will come down to you.”

Chapter 16 - The Lover and the Husband
“Ah, madame,” said D’Artagnan, as he entered by the door which the young woman had opened for him, “allow me

to tell you that you have a sorry husband there.”
“Then you overheard our conversation?” asked Madame Bonacieux eagerly, and looking at D’Artagnan with much

uneasiness.
“The whole of it.”
“But, my God! how could you do that?”
“By a method known to myself, and by which I likewise overheard the more animated conversation which you had with

the cardinal’s bailiffs.”
“And what did you understand by what we said?”
“A thousand things. In the first place, that, fortunately, your husband is a simpleton and a fool. In the next

place, that you are in trouble, of which I am very glad, as it gives me an opportunity of placing myself at your

service; and God knows I am ready to throw myself into the fire for you. And that the queen wants a brave,

intelligent, devoted man to make a journey to London for her. I have, at least, two of the three qualities you

stand in need of, and here I am.”
Madame Bonacieux made no reply, but her heart beat with joy, and a secret hope shone in her eyes.
“And what pledge can you give me,” asked she, “if I consent to confide this message to you?”
“My love for you. Speak! command! What must I do?”
“But this secret is not mine, and I cannot reveal it in this manner.”
“Why, you were going to confide it to M. Bonacieux,” said D’Artagnan in vexation.
“As we confide a letter to the hollow of a tree, to the wing of a pigeon, or the collar of a dog.”
“And yet—you see plainly that I love you.”
“You say so.”
“I am an honourable man.”
“I believe so.”
“I am brave.”
“Oh, I am sure of that.”
“Then put me to the proof.”
“Listen,” said she; “I yield to your protestations, I submit to your assurances. But I swear to you, before God

who hears us, that if you betray me, and my enemies pardon me, I will kill myself while accusing you of my death.

”
“And I—I swear to you before God, madame,” said D’Artagnan, “that if I am taken while accomplishing the

orders you give me, I will die sooner than do anything or say anything that may compromise any one.”
Then the young woman confided to him the terrible secret, a part of which had already been revealed to him, by

chance, in front of the Samaritaine.
This was their mutual declaration of love.
D’Artagnan was radiant with joy and pride. This secret which he possessed, this woman whom he loved—confidence

and love made him a giant.
“But still there is another thing,” said Madame Bonacieux.
“What is that?” asked D’Artagnan, seeing that Madame Bonacieux hesitated to proceed.
“You have, perhaps, no money?”
“Perhaps is too much,” said D’Artagnan, smiling.
“Then,” replied Madame Bonacieux, opening a cupboard and taking from it the very bag which half an hour before

her husband had caressed so affectionately, “take this bag.”
“The cardinal’s?” cried D’Artagnan, breaking into a loud laugh, he having heard, as may be remembered, thanks

to his broken floor, every syllable of the conversation between the mercer and his wife.
“The cardinal’s,” replied Madame Bonacieux. “You see it makes a very respectable appearance.”
“Zounds!” cried D’Artagnan, “it will be a doubly amusing affair to save the queen with his Eminence’s money!

”
“You are an amiable and charming young man!” said Madame Bonacieux. “Be assured you will not find her Majesty

ungrateful.”
“Oh, I am already more than recompensed!” cried D’Artagnan. “I love you; you permit me to tell you that I do;

that is already more happiness than I dared to hope for.”
“Silence!” said Madame Bonacieux, starting.
“What!”
“Some one is talking in the street.”
“It is the voice of—”
“Of my husband! Oh yes, I recognized it!”
D’Artagnan ran to the door and pushed the bolt.
“He shall not come in before I am gone,” said he; “and when I am gone, you can open the door for him.”
“But I ought to be gone too. And the disappearance of this money— how am I to justify it if I am here?”
“You are right. We must go out.”
“Go out? How? He will see us if we go out.”
“Then you must come up into my room.”
“Ah,” said Madame Bonacieux, “you say that in a tone which terrifies me!”

Madame Bonacieux pronounced these words with tears in her eyes. D’Artagnan saw these tears, and much disturbed,

softened, he threw himself at her feet.
“In my apartment you will be as safe as in a temple. I give you my word as a gentleman.”
“Let us go, then. I place full confidence in you, my friend.”
D’Artagnan carefully drew back the bolt, and both, light as shadows, glided through the interior door into the

passage, ascended the stairs as quietly as possible, and entered D’Artagnan’s apartment.
Once in his apartment, for greater security the young man barricaded the door. They both went up to the window,

and through a slit in the shutter they saw M. Bonacieux talking with a man in a cloak.
At the sight of this man D’Artagnan started, half drew his sword, and sprang towards the door.
It was the man of Meung. D’Artagnan drew near the window and listened.
M. Bonacieux had opened his door, and seeing the apartment empty, had returned to the man in the cloak, whom he

had left alone for an instant.
“She is gone,” said he; “she must have gone back to the Louvre.”
“You are sure,” replied the stranger, “that she did not suspect the intention you had when you went out?”
“No,” replied Bonacieux, with a self-sufficient air, “she is too superficial a woman.”
“Let us walk into your apartment. We shall be safer there than in the doorway.”
D’Artagnan raised the three or four tiles which made of his chamber another ear of Dionysius, spread a carpet,

went down upon his knees, and made a sign to Madame Bonacieux to stoop down toward the opening, as he did.
“And you think that your wife—” said Rochefort.“Has returned to the Louvre.”
“Without speaking to any one but yourself?”
“I am sure of it.”
“Please to understand that is an important point.”
“So the news I brought you, then, has some value—”
“A very great value, my dear Bonacieux. I don’t attempt to deny it.”
“Then the cardinal will be pleased with me?”
“No doubt he will.”
“The great cardinal!”
“Are you sure that in her conversation with you your wife mentioned no proper names?”
“I don’t think she did.”
“She did not name Madame de Chevreuse, the Duke of Buckingham, or Madame de Verne?”
“No; she only told me she wished to send me to London to further the interests of an illustrious personage.”
“Oh, the traitor!” murmured Madame Bonacieux.
“Silence!” whispered D’Artagnan, taking a hand which, without thinking of it, she suffered him to retain.
“Nevertheless,” continued the man in the cloak, “it was very silly of you not to have feigned to accept the

mission. You would now be in possession of the letter; the state, which is now threatened, would be safe; and you

—”
“I will go to the Louvre; I will ask for Madame Bonacieux; I will tell her I have reflected upon the matter; I

will resume the affair, obtain the letter, and then hasten directly to the cardinal’s.”
“Well, begone then! Make all possible haste. I will shortly come back to learn the result of your plan.”
The unknown went out.
“The wretch!” said Madame Bonacieux, addressing this other affectionate epithet to her husband.
“Silence, once more!” said D’Artagnan, pressing her hand still more tightly.
A terrible howling interrupted these reflections of D’Artagnan and Madame Bonacieux. It was her husband, who had

discovered the disappearance of his money-bag, and was screaming out, “Thieves! thieves!”
Bonacieux cried for a long time. But as such cries, on account of their frequency, did not attract much notice in

the Rue des Fossoyeurs, and as, besides, the mercer’s house had not been for some time in very good repute,

finding that nobody came, he went out, continuing to cry aloud, and his voice died away in the direction of the

Rue du Bac.
“Now he is gone, it is your turn to go,” said Madame Bonacieux. “Have courage, but above all, prudence, and

remember that it is your duty to the queen!”
“To her and to you!” cried D’Artagnan. “Be satisfied, lovely Constance. I shall become worthy of her

gratitude, but shall I likewise return worthy of your love?”
The young woman replied only by the vivid blush which mounted to her cheeks. A few moments later D’Artagnan went

out in his turn, enveloped in a large cloak, which the sheath of a long sword held back cavalierly.
Madame Bonacieux followed him with her eyes, with that long, fond look with which a woman accompanies the man whom

she feels she loves. But when he had turned the angle of the street she fell on her knees, and clasping her hands,
“Oh, my God!” cried she, “protect the queen, protect me!

Chapter 17 - Plan of Campaign
D’Artagnan went straight to M. de Tréville’s h?tel. He had considered that in a few minutes the cardinal would

be warned by this cursed unknown, who appeared to be his agent, and he rightly judged he had not a moment to lose.
The young man’s heart overflowed with joy. An opportunity presented itself to him in which there would be both

glory and money to be gained, and as a far higher encouragement still, had just brought him into close intimacy

with the woman he adored. This chance was doing, then, for him, almost at once, more than he would have dared to

ask of Providence.
“You have something to say to me, my young friend?” said M. de Tréville.
“Yes, sir,” said D’Artagnan; “and you will pardon me, I hope, for having disturbed you when you know the

importance of my business.”
“Speak, then; I am all attention.”
“It concerns nothing less,” said D’Artagnan, lowering his voice, “than the honour, perhaps the life, of the

queen.”
“What are you saying?” asked M. de Tréville, glancing round to see if they were alone, and then fixing his

scrutinizing look upon D’Artagnan.
“I say, sir, that chance has rendered me master of a secret—”
“Which you will keep, I hope, young man, with your life.”
“But which I must impart to you, sir, for you alone can assist me in the mission I have just received from her

Majesty.”
“Is this secret your own?”
“No, sir; it is the queen’s.”
“Keep your secret, young man, and tell me what you wish.”
“I wish you to obtain for me, from M. des Essarts, leave of absence for a fortnight.”
“When?”
“This very night.”
“You are leaving Paris?”
“I am going on a mission.”
“May you tell me where?”
“To London.”
“Has any one an interest in preventing you reaching there?”
“The cardinal, I believe, would give anything in the world to hinder me from succeeding.”
“And you are going alone?”
“I am going alone.”
“In that case you will not get beyond Bondy. I tell you so, by the word of De Tréville.”
“How so, sir?”
“You will be assassinated.”
“And I shall die in the performance of my duty.”
“But your mission will not be accomplished.”
“That is true,” replied D’Artagnan.
“Believe me,” continued Tréville, “in enterprises of this kind, four must set out, for one to arrive.”
“Ah, you are right, sir,” said D’Artagnan; “but you know Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, and you know whether I

can make use of them.”
“Without confiding to them the secret which I did not wish to know?”
“We are sworn, once and for ever, to implicit confidence and devotion against all proof. Besides, you can tell

them that you have full confidence in me, and they will not be more incredulous than you.”
“I can send to each of them leave of absence for a fortnight, that is all—Athos, whose wound still gives him

inconvenience, to go to the waters of Forges; Porthos and Aramis to accompany their friend, whom they are not

willing to abandon in such a painful position. Sending their leave of absence will be proof enough that I

authorize their journey.”
“Thanks, sir. You are a hundred times too good!”
“Go, then, and find them instantly, and let all be done tonight. Ah! but first write your request to M. des

Essarts. You perhaps had a spy at your heels, and your visit—in that case already known to the cardinal—will be

thus made regular.”
D’Artagnan drew up his request, and M. de Tréville, on receiving it, assured him that before two o’clock in the

morning the four furloughs should be at the respective domiciles of the travellers.
“Have the goodness to send mine to Athos’s residence,” said D’Artagnan. “I should fear some disagreeable

encounter if I were to go home.”
“I will. Farewell, and a prosperous journey! By the way,” said M. de Tréville, calling him back,
D’Artagnan returned.
“Have you any money?”
D’Artagnan jingled the bag he had in his pocket.
“Enough?” asked M. de Tréville.
“Three hundred pistoles.”
“Excellent! That would carry you to the end of the world. Go, then!”
D’Artagnan bowed to M. de Tréville, who held out his hand to him. D’Artagnan pressed it with a respect mixed

with gratitude. Since his first arrival at Paris he had had constant occasion to honour this excellent man, whom

he had always found worthy, loyal, and great.

Chapter 18 - The Journey
At two o’clock in the morning our four adventurers left Paris by the gate St. Denis.
The lackeys followed, armed to the teeth.
All went well as far as Chantilly, where they arrived about eight o’clock in the morning. They needed breakfast,

and alighted at the door of an inn recommended by a sign representing St. Martin giving half his cloak to a poor

man.
They entered the public room, and seated themselves at table. A gentleman, who had just arrived by the route of

Dammartin, was seated at the same table, and was taking his breakfast.
At the moment Mousqueton came to announce that the horses were ready, and they were rising from the table, the

stranger proposed to Porthos to drink the cardinal’s health. Porthos replied that he asked no better, if the

stranger in his turn would drink the king’s health. The stranger cried that he acknowledged no other king but his

Eminence. Porthos told him he was drunk, and the stranger drew his sword.
“You have committed a piece of folly,” said Athos, “but it can’t be helped; there is no drawing back. Kill

your man, and rejoin us as soon as you can.”
And all three mounted their horses and set out at a good pace, while Porthos was promising his adversary to

perforate him with all the thrusts known in the fencing schools.
And the travellers continued their route.
At Beauvais they stopped two hours, as much to breathe their horses a little as to wait for Porthos. At the end of

the two hours, as Porthos did not come and they heard no news of him, they resumed their journey.
At a league from Beauvais, where the road was confined between two high banks, they fell in with eight or ten men

who, taking advantage of the road being unpaved in this spot, appeared to be employed in digging holes and making

muddy ruts.
Aramis, not liking to soil his boots with this artificial mortar, apostrophized them rather sharply. Athos wished

to restrain him, but it was too late. The labourers began to jeer the travellers, and by their insolence disturbed

the equanimity even of the cool Athos, who urged on his horse against one of them.
The men all immediately drew back to the ditch, from which each took a concealed musket. The result was that our

seven travellers were outnumbered in weapons. Aramis received a ball which passed through his shoulder, and

Mousqueton another ball which lodged in the fleshy parts at the lower portion of the back. Mousqueton alone fell

from his horse, not because he was severely wounded, but from not being able to see the wound, he deemed it to be

more serious than it really was.
“It is an ambuscade!” shouted D’Artagnan; “don’t waste a shot! Forward!”
Aramis, wounded as he was, seized the mane of his horse, which carried him on with the others. Mousqueton’s horse

rejoined them, and galloped by the side of his companions.
“That horse will serve us for a relay,” said Athos.
They continued at their best speed for two hours, although the horses were so fatigued that it was to be feared

they would soon refuse service.
The travellers had chosen cross-roads, in the hope that they might meet with less interruption. But at Crèvec?ur

Aramis declared he could proceed no farther. In fact, it required all the courage which he concealed beneath his

elegant form and polished manners to bear him so far. He grew paler every minute, and they were obliged to support

him on his horse. They lifted him off at the door of an inn, left Bazin with him—who, besides, in a skirmish was

more embarrassing than useful—and set forward again in the hope of sleeping at Amiens. They arrived at midnight,

and alighted at the inn of the Golden Lily.
The host had the appearance of as honest a man as any on earth. He received the travellers with his candlestick in

one hand and his cotton nightcap in the other.
“Grimaud can take care of the horses,” said Planchet. “If you are willing, gentlemen, I will sleep across your

doorway, and you will then be certain that nobody can come to you.”
“And what will you sleep upon?” said D’Artagnan.
“Here is my bed,” replied Planchet, producing a bundle of straw.
At four o’clock in the morning a terrible noise was heard in the stables. Grimaud had tried to waken the stable-

boys, and the stable-boys were beating him. When the window was opened the poor lad was seen lying senseless, with

his head split by a blow with a fork-handle.

Planchet went down into the yard, and proceeded to saddle the horses. But the horses were all used up. Mousqueton

’s horse, which had travelled for five or six hours without a rider the day before, alone might have been able to

pursue the journey. But, by an inconceivable error, a veterinary surgeon, who had been sent for, as it appeared,

to bleed one of the host’s horses, had bled Mousqueton’s.
This began to be annoying. All these successive accidents were, perhaps, the result of chance, but they might,

quite as probably, be the fruits of a plot. Athos and D’Artagnan went out, while Planchet was sent to inquire if

there were not three horses for sale in the neighbourhood. At the door stood two horses, fresh, strong, and fully

equipped. These were just what they wanted. He asked where their owners were, and was informed that they had

passed the night in the inn, and were then settling with the master.
Athos went down to pay the reckoning, while D’Artagnan and Planchet stood at the street door. The host was in a

low room at the back, to which Athos was requested to go.
Athos entered without the least mistrust, and took out two pistoles to pay the bill. The host was alone, seated

before his desk, one of the drawers of which was partly open. He took the money which Athos offered to him, and

after turning and turning it over and over in his hands, suddenly cried out that it was bad, and that he would

have him and his companions arrested as counterfeiters.
“You scoundrel!” cried Athos, stepping towards him, “I’ll cut your ears off!”
But the host stooped, took two pistols from the half-open drawer, pointed them at Athos, and called out for help.
At the same instant four men, armed to the teeth, entered by side doors, and rushed upon Athos.
“I am taken!” shouted Athos with all the power of his lungs. “Go on, D’Artagnan! spur! spur!” And he fired

two pistols.
D’Artagnan and Planchet did not require twice bidding. They unfastened the two horses that were waiting at the

door, leaped upon them, buried their spurs in their sides, and set off at full gallop.
And both, with free use of the spur, arrived at St. Omer without drawing bridle. At St. Omer they breathed their

horses with their bridles passed under their arms, for fear of accident, and ate a hasty morsel standing in the

road, after which they departed again.
At a hundred paces from the gates of Calais D’Artagnan’s horse sank under him, and could not by any means be

made to get up again, the blood flowing from both his eyes and his nose. There still remained Planchet’s horse,

but he had stopped short, and could not be started again.
Fortunately, as we have said, they were within a hundred paces of the city. They left their two horses upon the

highway, and ran toward the port. Planchet called his master’s attention to a gentleman who had just arrived with

his lackey, and who was about fifty paces ahead of them.
They made all haste to come up to this gentleman, who appeared to be in a great hurry. His boots were covered with

dust, and he was asking whether he could not instantly cross over to England.
“Nothing would be more easy,” said the captain of a vessel ready to set sail, “but this morning an order

arrived that no one should be allowed to cross without express permission from the cardinal.”
“I have that permission,” said the gentleman, drawing a paper from his pocket; “here it is.”
“Have it signed by the governor of the port,” said the captain, “and give me the preference.”
“Where shall I find the governor?”
“At his country house.”
“Where is that situated?”
“A quarter of a league from the city. Look, you may see it from here, at the foot of that little hill, that

slated roof.”
“Very well,” said the gentleman.

And with his lackey he started for the governor’s country house.
D’Artagnan and Planchet followed the gentleman at a distance of five hundred paces.
Once outside the city, D’Artagnan quickly overtook the gentleman as he was entering a little wood.
“Planchet,” called out D’Artagnan, “take care of the lackey. I will manage the master.”
Planchet, emboldened by his first exploit, sprang upon Lubin; and being strong and vigorous, he soon got him on

his back, and placed his knee on his chest.
“Go on with your affair, sir,” cried Planchet; “I have finished mine.”
Seeing this, the gentleman drew his sword, and sprang upon D’Artagnan; but he had to deal with a tough customer.
In three seconds D’Artagnan had wounded him three times, exclaiming at each thrust,
“One for Athos! one for Porthos! and one for Aramis!”
At the third thrust the gentleman fell like a log.
D’Artagnan believed him to be dead, or at least insensible, and went toward him for the purpose of taking the

order. But at the moment he stretched out his hand to search for it, the wounded man, who had not dropped his

sword, pricked him in the breast, crying,
“And one for you!”
“And one for me—the best for the last!” cried D’Artagnan in a rage, nailing him to the earth with a fourth

thrust through his body.
This time the gentleman closed his eyes and fainted. D’Artagnan searched his pockets, and took from one of them

the order for the passage. It was in the name of the Comte de Wardes.
Then casting a glance on the handsome young man, who was scarcely twenty-five years of age, and whom he was

leaving lying there unconscious and perhaps dead, he uttered a sigh over that unaccountable destiny which leads

men to destroy one another for the interests of people who are strangers to them, and who often do not even know

of their existence.
But he was soon roused from these reflections by Lubin, who uttered loud cries, and screamed for help with all his

might.
Planchet grasped him by the throat, and pressed as hard as he could.
“Sir,” said he, “as long as I hold him in this manner he can’t cry, I’ll be bound; but as soon as I let go,

he will howl again as loud as ever. I have found out that he’s a Norman, and Normans are obstinate.”
In fact, tightly held as he was, Lubin endeavoured still to make a noise.
“Wait!” said D’Artagnan; and taking out his handkerchief, he gagged him.
“Now,” said Planchet, “let us bind him to a tree.”
This being properly done, they drew the Comte de Wardes close to his servant; and as night was approaching, and as

the wounded man and the bound man were both at some little distance within the wood, it was evident they would

remain there till the next day.
“And now,” said D’Artagnan, “to the governor’s house.”
“But you appear to me to be wounded,” said Planchet.
“Oh, that’s nothing! Let us dispatch what is most pressing first, and we will attend to my wound afterwards;

besides, it does not seem a very dangerous one.”
And they both set forward as fast as they could towards the worthy functionary’s country seat.
The governor signed the passport and delivered it to D’Artagnan, who lost no time in useless compliments, but

thanked the governor, bowed, and departed.
Once out, he and Planchet set off as fast as they could, and by making a détour, avoided the wood, and re-entered

the city by another gate.
The vessel was quite ready to sail, and the captain waiting on the wharf.
“Well?” said he, on perceiving D’Artagnan.
“Here is my pass, signed,” said the latter.
“And that other gentleman?”
“He will not go to-day,” said D’Artagnan; “but here, I’ll pay you for us two.”
“In that case we will be gone,” said the captain.
“Yes; as soon as you please,” replied D’Artagnan.
He leaped with Planchet into the boat. Five minutes after they were on board.

D’Artagnan did not know London, he did not know one word of English, but he wrote the name of Buckingham on a

piece of paper, and every one to whom he showed it pointed out to him the way to the duke’s palace.
The duke was at Windsor hunting with the king.
D’Artagnan inquired for the duke’s confidential valet, who, having accompanied him in all his travels, spoke

French perfectly well. He told him that he came from Paris on an affair of life and death, and that he must speak

with his master instantly.
The confidence with which D’Artagnan spoke convinced Patrick, which was the name of the minister’s minister. He

ordered two horses to be saddled, and himself went as the young guardsman’s guide. As for Planchet, he had been

lifted from his horse as stiff as a stake. The poor lad’s strength was exhausted. D’Artagnan seemed to be made

of iron.
On their arrival at the castle they inquired for the duke, and learned that he was hawking with the king in the

marshes, two or three leagues away.
In twenty minutes they were at the place designated. Patrick soon caught the sound of his master’s voice

recalling his falcon.
“Whom shall I announce to my Lord Duke?” asked Patrick.
“The young man who one evening sought a quarrel with him on the Pont Neuf, opposite the Samaritaine.”
“Rather a singular introduction!”
“You will find that it is as good as any other.”
Patrick galloped off, reached the duke, and announced to him in these very words that a messenger awaited him.
Buckingham at once remembered the circumstance, and suspecting that something was going on in France, concerning

which news was now brought to him, he took only the time to inquire where the messenger was, and recognizing at a

distance the uniform of the guards, he put his horse into a gallop, and rode straight up to D’Artagnan. Patrick

discreetly kept in the background.
“Has any misfortune happened to the queen?” cried Buckingham, throwing all his fear and love into the question.
“I believe not. Nevertheless, I believe she is in some great peril from which your Grace alone can extricate her.

”
“I!” cried Buckingham. “What is it? I should be but too happy to render her any service. Speak! speak!”
“Take this letter,” said D’Artagnan.
“This letter! From whom does this letter come?”
“From her Majesty, as I think.”
“From her Majesty!” said Buckingham, becoming so pale that D’Artagnan feared he was going to be ill; and he

broke the seal.
“Just Heaven! what have I read?” cried the duke.—“Patrick, remain here, or rather join the king, wherever he

may be, and tell his Majesty that I humbly beg him to excuse me, but an affair of the greatest importance calls me

to London.—Come, sir, come!” And both set off toward the capital at full gallop.

Chapter 19 - The Comtesse de Winter
As they rode along the duke learned from D’Artagnan, not all that had passed, but all that D’Artagnan himself

knew. By adding what he got from the young man to his own recollections, he was enabled to form a pretty exact

idea of a condition of things the seriousness of which the queen’s letter, short and vague as it was, conveyed to

him quite clearly.
The horses went like the wind, and they were soon at the gates of London.
On entering the court of his palace Buckingham sprang from his horse, and without caring what would become of him,

threw the bridle on his neck and sprang toward the staircase.
The duke walked so fast that D’Artagnan had some trouble in keeping up with him. He passed through several

apartments furnished with an elegance of which the greatest nobles of France had not even an idea, and arrived at

length in a bedchamber which was at once a miracle of taste and of splendour. In the alcove of this chamber was a

door, made in the tapestry, which the duke opened with a small gold key suspended from his neck by a chain of the

same metal.
They then found themselves in a small chapel hung with a tapestry of Persian silk and embossed with gold, and

brilliantly lit with a vast number of wax candles. Over a kind of altar, and beneath a canopy of blue velvet,

surmounted by white and red plumes, was a life-size portrait of Anne of Austria, such a perfect likeness that D’

Artagnan uttered a cry of surprise on beholding it. You might believe that the queen was about to speak.
On the altar, and beneath the portrait, was the casket containing the diamond studs.
The duke approached the altar, fell on his knees, as a priest might have done before a crucifix, then opened the

casket.
“Here,” said he, drawing from the casket a large bow of blue ribbon all sparkling with diamonds—“here,” said

he, “are the precious studs which I have taken an oath should be buried with me. The queen gave them to me; the

queen takes them from me. Her will, like that of God, be done in all things.”
Then he began to kiss, one after the other, those studs with which he was about to part. All at once he uttered a

terrible cry.
“What is the matter?” exclaimed D’Artagnan anxiously; “what has happened to you, milord?”
“All is lost! all is lost!” cried Buckingham, turning as pale as death; “two of the studs are missing—there

are but ten of them left!”
“Can you have lost them, milord, or do you think they have been stolen?”
“They have been stolen,” replied the duke, “and it is the cardinal who has dealt me this blow. See! the ribbons

which held them have been cut with scissors.”
“If milord suspects they have been stolen, perhaps the person who stole them still has them.”
“Let me reflect,” said the duke. “The only time I wore these studs was at a ball given by the king a week ago

at Windsor. The Comtesse de Winter, with whom I had had a quarrel, became reconciled to me at that ball. That

reconciliation was a jealous woman’s vengeance. I have never seen her since. The woman is an agent of the

cardinal’s.”
“Why, then, he has agents throughout the whole world!” cried D’Artagnan.
“Yes, yes,” said Buckingham, gnashing his teeth with rage; “he is a terrible antagonist! But when is the ball

to take place?”
“Next Monday.”
“Next Monday! Five days yet. That’s more time than we need.— Patrick!” cried the duke, opening the door of the

chapel—“Patrick!”
His confidential valet appeared.
“My jeweller and my secretary.”
The valet went out with a mute promptness and silence that showed he was accustomed to obey blindly and without

reply.
But although the jeweller had been summoned first, it was the secretary who first made his appearance. This was

simple enough. He lived in the palace. He found Buckingham seated at a table in his bedchamber writing orders with

his own hand.
“Master Jackson,” said he, “go instantly to the lord chancellor, and tell him that I desire him to execute

these orders. I wish them to be promulgated immediately.”
The secretary bowed and retired.
“We are safe on that side,” said Buckingham, turning toward D’Artagnan. “If the studs are not yet gone to

Paris, they will not arrive till after you.”
“How so, milord?”
“I have just placed an embargo on all vessels at present in his Majesty’s ports, and without special permission

not one will dare raise an anchor.”
D’Artagnan was astonished to see by what fragile and unknown threads the destinies of a nation and the lives of

men are sometimes suspended.

He was lost in these reflections when the goldsmith entered. He was an Irishman, one of the most skilful of his

craft, and who himself confessed that he gained a hundred thousand pounds a year by the Duke of Buckingham.
“Master O’Reilly,” said the Duke to him, leading him into the chapel, “look at these diamond studs, and tell

me what they are worth apiece.”
The goldsmith cast a glance at the elegant manner in which they were set, calculated, one with another, what the

diamonds were worth, and without hesitation,
“Fifteen hundred pistoles each, your Grace,” replied he.
“How many days would it require to make two studs exactly like them? You see there are two wanting.”
“A week, your Grace.”
“I will give you three thousand pistoles each if I can have them by the day after to-morrow.”
“Your Grace, you shall have them.”
An hour later the ordinance was published in London that no vessel bound for France should leave the ports—not

even the packet-boat with letters. In the eyes of everybody this was a declaration of war bet