The queen had just regained her chamber, and D’Artagnan was about to retire, when he felt a light touch on his

shoulder. He turned round, and saw a young woman, who made him a sign to follow her. This young woman’s face was

covered with a black velvet mask, but notwithstanding this precaution, which was, in fact, taken rather against

others than against him, he at once recognized his usual guide, the gay and witty Madame Bonacieux.
The haste which the young woman was in to convey to her mistress the fine news of her messenger’s happy return

prevented the two lovers from exchanging more than a few words. D’Artagnan, therefore, followed Madame Bonacieux,

moved by a double sentiment, love and curiosity. At length, after a minute or two of turns and counterturns,

Madame Bonacieux opened the door of a closet, which was entirely dark, and led the young man into it. There she

made a fresh sign of silence, and opening a second door, concealed by a tapestry which as it was drawn aside let

in a sudden flood of brilliant light, she disappeared.
D’Artagnan remained for a moment motionless, asking himself where he could be; but soon a ray of light

penetrating from the chamber, the warm and perfumed air reaching even to him, the conversation of two or three

ladies in language at once respectful and elegant, and the word “Majesty” many times repeated, clearly indicated

to him that he was in a closet adjoining the queen’s chamber.
The young man stood in the shadow and waited.
Although D’Artagnan did not know the queen, he soon distinguished her voice from the others, at first by a

slightly foreign accent, and next by that tone of domination naturally impressed upon all royal words. He heard

her approach and withdraw from the open door, and twice or three times he even saw the shadow of a body intercept

the light.
At length a hand and an arm, surpassingly beautiful in form and whiteness, suddenly glided through the tapestry. D

’Artagnan understood that this was his reward. He cast himself on his knees, seized the hand, and touched it

respectfully with his lips; then the hand was withdrawn, leaving in his an object which he perceived to be a ring.

The door immediately closed, and D’Artagnan found himself again in complete darkness.
D’Artagnan placed the ring on his finger, and again waited; it was evident that all was not yet over. After the

reward of his devotion, the reward of his love was to come. Besides, although the ballet was danced, the evening’

s pleasures had scarcely begun. Supper was to be served at three and the clock of St. John had struck three-

quarters after two.
In fact, the sound of voices in the adjoining chamber diminished by degrees; the company was then heard departing;

then the door of the closet in which D’Artagnan was was opened, and Madame Bonacieux entered quickly.
“You at last?” cried D’Artagnan.
“Silence!” said the young woman, placing her hand upon his lips— “silence! and go the same way you came.”
“But where and when shall I see you again?” cried D’Artagnan.
“A note which you will find at home will tell you. Go! go!”
And at these words she opened the door of the corridor and pushed D’Artagnan out of the closet. D’Artagnan

obeyed like a child, without the least resistance or objection, which proves that he was really in love.

Chapter 21 - The Rendezvous
D’Artagnan ran home immediately, and although it was after three o’clock in the morning, and he had the worst

quarters of Paris to pass through, he met with no misadventure.
He found the door of his passage open, sprang up the stairs, and knocked softly, in a manner agreed upon between

him and his lackey. Planchet, whom he had sent home two hours before from the City Hall, desiring him to sit up

for him, came and opened the door.
“Has any one brought a letter for me?” asked D’Artagnan eagerly.
“No one has brought a letter, sir,” replied Planchet; “but there is one come of itself.”
“What do you mean by that, you stupid fellow?”
“I mean that when I came in, although I had the key of your apartment in my pocket and that key had never been

out of my possession, I found a letter on the green table-cover in your bedroom.”
“And where is that letter?”
“I left it where I found it, sir.”
In the meantime the young man darted into his chamber and was opening the letter. It was from Madame Bonacieux,

and was conceived in these terms:
“Warm thanks are to be offered to you, and to be transmitted to you. Be at St. Cloud this evening about ten o’

clock, in front of the pavilion at the corner of M. d’Estrées’s h?tel.—C.B.”
While reading this letter D’Artagnan felt his heart expand and close with that delicious spasm that tortures and

caresses the hearts of lovers.
At seven o’clock in the morning he arose and called Planchet, who, at the second summons, opened the door, his

countenance not yet quite free from the anxiety of the preceding night.
“Planchet,” said D’Artagnan, “I am going out for all day, perhaps. You are, therefore, your own master till

seven o’clock in the evening.”
He took his way toward M. de Tréville’s h?tel. His visit the day before, we remember, had been very short, with

little chances for confidential talk.
He found M. de Tréville in a most joyful mood. The king and queen had been charming to him at the ball. The

cardinal, however, had been particularly ill-tempered; he had retired at one o’clock under the pretence of being

indisposed. Their Majesties did not return to the Louvre till six o’clock.
“Now,” said M. de Tréville, lowering his voice and looking round at every corner of the apartment to see whether

they were alone—“now let us talk about yourself, my young friend; for it is evident that your fortunate return

has something to do with the king’s joy, the queen’s triumph, and the cardinal’s humiliation. You must look out

for yourself.”
“What have I to fear,” replied D’Artagnan, “so long as I have the good fortune to enjoy their Majesties’

favour?”
“Everything, believe me. But, by the way,” resumed M. de Tréville, “what has become of your three companions?”
“I was about to ask you if you had heard no news of them.”
“None whatever, sir.”
Well, I left them on my road—Porthos at Chantilly, with a duel on his hands; Aramis at Crèvec?ur, with a ball in

his shoulder; and Athos at Amiens, detained by an accusation of counterfeiting.”
“See there, now!” said M. de Tréville. “And how the devil did you escape?”
“By a miracle, sir, I must acknowledge, with a sword-thrust in my breast, and by nailing Comte de Wardes, on the

road to Calais, like a butterfly on a tapestry.”
“There again! De Wardes, one of the cardinal’s men, a cousin of Rochefort’s! But stop, my friend, I have an

idea.”
“Speak, sir.”
“In your place, I would do one thing.”
“What, sir?”
“While his Eminence was seeking for me in Paris, I should take, without sound of drum or trumpet, the road to

Picardy, and should go and make some enquiries concerning my three companions. What the devil! they richly merit

that piece of attention on your part.”
“Your advice is good, sir, and to-morrow I will set out.”
“To-morrow! And why not this evening?”
“This evening, sir, I am detained in Paris by urgent business.”
“Ah, young man, young man! Some love affair. Take care, I repeat to you, take care! Women was the ruin of us all,

is the ruin of us all, and will be the ruin of us all, as long as the world stands. Take my advice and set out

this evening.”
“It is impossible, sir.”
“You have given your word, then?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ah, that’s quite another thing. But promise me, if you should not happen to be killed to-night, that you will

go to-morrow.”
“I promise you, sir.”
“Do you want money?”
“I still have fifty pistoles. That, I think, is as much as I shall need.”
“But your companions?”
“I don’t think they can be in need of any. We left Paris each with seventy-five pistoles in his pocket.”
“Shall I see you again before your departure?”
“I think not, sir, unless something new happens.”
“Well, a pleasant journey to you, then.”
“Thank you, sir.”
And D’Artagnan left M. de Tréville, touched more than ever by his paternal solicitude for his musketeers.
He called successively at the abodes of Athos, Porthos, and Aramis. None of them had returned. Their lackeys

likewise were absent, and nothing had been heard of either masters or servants.
He would have inquired after them of their mistresses, but he was not acquainted with Porthos’s or Aramis’s, and

Athos had none.
D’Artagnan, being at bottom a prudent youth, instead of returning home, went and dined with the Gascon priest,

who, at the time of the four friends’ poverty, had given them a breakfast of chocolate.

Chapter 22 - The Pavilion
At nine o’clock D’Artagnan was at the H?tel des Gardes. D’Artagnan had his sword, and placed two pistols in his

belt; then mounted and departed quietly. It was quite dark, and no one saw him go out.
D’Artagnan crossed the quays, went out by the gate of La Conférence, and went along the road, much more beautiful

then than it is now, leading to St. Cloud.
D’Artagnan reached St. Cloud; but instead of following the highway, 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 a hedge

protected from passers by a little garden, at the rear of which stood a small cottage.
He was now on the place appointed, and as no signal had been given him by which to announce his presence, he

waited.
His eyes were fixed upon the little pavilion situated at the angle of the wall, all the windows of which were

closed with shutters, except one on the first story.
Through this window shone a mild light, silvering the trembling folige of two or three linden trees that formed a

group outside the park.
The clock on St. Cloud struck half-past ten.It struck eleven!
At that moment he noticed the trees, on the leaves of which the light still shone; and as one of them drooped over

the road, he thought that from its branches he might succeed in looking into the pavilion.
The tree was easy to climb. Besides, D’Artagnan was scarcely twenty, and consequently had not yet forgotten his

schoolboy habits. In an instant he was among the branches, and his eyes penetrated through the clear glass into

the interior of the pavilion.
One of the panes of glass was broken, the door of the room had been burst in, and hung, split in two, on its

hinges; a table, which had been covered with an elegant supper, was overturned; the decanters, broken in pieces,

and the crushed fruits, strewed the floor; everything in the apartment gave evidence of a violent and desperate

struggle.
He hastened down into the street, with his heart throbbing frightfully.
The little soft light continued to shine in the calm of the night. D’Artagnan then perceived a thing that he had

not before remarked, for nothing had led him to this scrutiny—that the ground, trampled here and hoof-marked

there, presented confused traces of men and horses. Besides, the wheels of a carriage, which appeared to have come

from Paris, had made a deep impression in the soft earth, not extending beyond the pavilion, but turning again

towards Paris.
At length D’Artagnan, in following up his researches, found near the wall a woman’s torn glove. Yet this glove,

wherever it had not touched the muddy ground, was of irreproachable freshness. It was one of those perfumed gloves

that lovers like to snatch from a pretty hand.
Then D’Artagnan became almost wild. He ran along the highway, retraced his steps, and coming to the ferry,

closely questioned the boatman.
About seven o’clock in the evening, the boatman said, he had taken over a young woman, enveloped in a black

mantle, who appeared to be very anxious not to be recognized.
There was then, as there is now, a crowd of pretty young women who came to St. Cloud, and who had good reasons for

not being seen, and yet D’Artagnan did not for an instant doubt that it was Madame Bonacieux whom the boatman had

noticed.
D’Artagnan took advantage of the lamp burning in the boatman’s cabin to read Madame Bonacieux’s note once

again, and satisfy himself that he had not been mistaken, that the appointment was at St. Cloud and not elsewhere,

before M. d’Estrées’s pavilion and not in another street.
He again ran back to the chateau. It appeared to him that something might have happened at the pavilion in his

absence, and that fresh information was awaiting him.
The lane was still empty, and the same calm, soft light shone from the window.
D’Artagnan then thought of that mute, blind cottage: it must have seen, and perhaps could speak!
The gate was locked, but he leaped over the hedge, and in spite of the barking of a chained dog, went up to the

cabin.
There was no answer to his first knocking. A deathlike silence reigned in the cottage as in the pavilion; but as

the cottage was his last resource, he kept knocking.
It soon appeared to him that he heard a slight noise within, a timid noise, seeming itself to tremble.
Then D’Artagnan ceased to knock, and entreated with an accent so full of anxiety and promises, terror and

persuasion, that his voice was of a nature to reassure the most timid. At length an old, worm-eaten shutter was

opened, or rather pushed ajar, but closed again as soon as the light from a miserable lamp burning in the corner

had shone upon D’Artagnan’s baldric, sword-hilt, and pistol pommels. Nevertheless, rapid as the movement had

been, D’Artagnan had had time to get a glimpse of an old man’s head.

“In the name of Heaven,” cried he, “listen to me! I have been waiting for some one who has not come. I am dying

with anxiety. Could any misfortune have happened in the neighbourhood? Speak!”
The window was again opened slowly, and the same face appeared again. Only it was paler than before.
D’Artagnan related his story simply, with the omission of names. He told how he had an appointment with a young

woman before that pavilion, and how, seeing she did not come, he had climbed the linden tree, and by the lamplight

had seen the disorder of the chamber.
The old man read so much truth and so much grief in the young man’s face that he made a sign to listen, and

speaking in a low voice, said,
“It was about nine o’clock when I heard a noise in the street, and was wondering what it could be, when, on

coming to my gate, I found that somebody was endeavouring to open it. As I am poor, and am not afraid of being

robbed, I went and opened the gate, and saw three men at a few paces from it. In the shade was a coach with

horses, and some saddle-horses. These saddle-horses evidently belonged to the three men, who were dressed as

cavaliers.
“‘Ah, my worthy gentlemen,’ cried I, ‘what do you want?’
“‘Have you a ladder?’ said the one who appeared to be the leader of the party.
“Yes, sir—the one with which I gather my fruit.”
“‘Lend it to us, and go into your house again. There is a crown for the trouble we cause you. Only remember

this, if you speak a word of what you may see or hear (for you will look and listen, I am quite sure, however we

may threaten you), you are lost.’
“At these words he threw me a crown, which I picked up, and he took my ladder.
“Well, then, after I had shut the gate behind them, I pretended to go into the house again; but I immediately

went out at a back door, and stealing along in the shade, I gained yonder clump of elder, from which I could see

everything without being seen.
“The three men brought the carriage up quietly, and took out of it a little, short, stout, elderly man, poorly

dressed in dark-coloured clothes. He climbed the ladder very carefully, looked slyly in at the window of the

pavilion, came down as quietly as he had gone up, and whispered,
“‘It is she!’
“Immediately the one who had spoken to me approached the door of the pavilion, opened it with a key he had in his

hand, closed the door, and disappeared, while at the time the other two men mounted the ladder. The little old man

remained at the coach door, the coachman took care of his horses, a lackey held the saddle-horses.
“All at once loud screams resounded in the pavilion, and a woman ran to the window and opened it, as if to throw

herself out of it; but as soon as she perceived the other two men, she sprang back, and they got into the chamber.
“Then I saw no more, but I heard the noise of breaking furniture. The woman screamed and cried for help, but her

cries were soon stifled. Two of the men appeared, bearing the woman in their arms, and carried her to the

carriage; the little old man entered it after her. The one who stayed in the pavilion closed the window, came out

an instant after at the door, and satisfied himself that the woman was in the carriage. His two companions were

already on horseback; he sprang into the saddle, the lackey took his place by the coachman, the carriage went off

at a rapid pace, escorted by the three horseman, and all was over. From that moment I have neither seen nor heard

anything.
D’Artagnan, entirely overcome by such terrible news, remained motionless and mute, while all the demons of anger

and jealousy were howling in his heart.
“But, my good gentleman,” resumed the old man, upon whom this mute despair certainly produced a greater effect

than cries and tears would have done, “do not take on so; they did not kill her—that’s the main thing.”
With a broken heart D’Artagnan again bent his way toward the ferry. Sometimes he could not believe it was Madame

Bonacieux, and hoped he should find her next day at the Louvre; sometimes he feared she had been having an

intrigue with some one else, who, in a jealous fit, had surprised her and carried her off. His mind was torn by

doubt, grief, and despair.
“Oh, if I had my three friends here,” cried he, “I should have, at least, some hopes of finding her; but who

knows what has become of them?
”It was almost midnight; he decided to pass the night in an inn. D’Artagnan, be it remembered, was only twenty

years old, and at that age sleep has imprescriptible rights, which it imperiously insists upon, even over the

saddest hearts.

Chapter 23 - Porthos
Instead of returning directly home, D’Artagnan alighted at M. de Tréville’s door and quickly ran upstairs. This

time he was determined to relate all that had passed.
M. de Tréville listened to the young man’s account with a seriousness which proved that he saw something else in

all this adventure than a love affair; and when D’Artagnan had finished.
“Hum!” said he; “all this smacks of his Eminence a league off.”
“But what is to be done?” said D’Artagnan.
“Nothing, absolutely nothing at present, but to leave Paris, as I told you, as soon as possible. I will see the

queen; I will relate to her the details of this poor woman’s disappearance, of which she is, no doubt, ignorant.

These details will guide her on her part, and on your return I shall perhaps have some good news to tell you.

Count on me.”
D’Artagnan knew that, although a Gascon, M. de Tréville was not in the habit of making promises, and that when by

chance he did promise, he generally more than kept his word. He bowed to him, then, full of gratitude for the past

and for the future; and the worthy captain, who, on his side, felt a lively interest in this young man who was so

brave and resolute, pressed his hand affectionately, while wishing him a pleasant journey.
Determined instantly to put M. de Tréville’s advice into practice, D’Artagnan rode toward the Rue des

Fossoyeurs, in order to super-intend the packing of his portmanteau. On approaching the house he perceived M.

Bonacieux, in morning costume, standing at his door.
“Well, young man,” said he, “we appear to pass rather gay nights! Seven o’clock in the morning! Hang it! you

seem to reverse ordinary customs, and come home at the hour when other people are going out.”
“No one can reproach you for anything of the kind, M. Bonacieux,” said the young man; “you are a model for

sober people.”
Bonacieux grinned a ghastly smile.
“Ah, ha!” said Bonacieux, “you are a jocular companion. But where the devil were you gadding last night, my

young master? It does not appear to be very clean in the crossroads.”
D’Artagnan glanced down at his boots, all covered with mud, but that same glance fell upon the mercer’s shoes

and stockings. It might have been said they had been dipped in the same mudhole. Both were stained with splashes

of the very same appearance.
Then a sudden thought crossed D’Artagnan’s mind. That little, short, stout, elderly man, that sort of lackey,

dressed in dark clothes, treated without consideration by the men wearing swords who composed the escort, was

Bonacieux himself! The husband had participated in the abduction of his wife!
“Ah, ha! but you are joking, my worthy man,” said D’Artagnan. “It appears to me that if my boots want

sponging, your stockings and shoes stand in equal need of brushing. May you not have been philandering a little

also, M. Bonacieux? Oh, the devil! that’s unpardonable in a man of your age, and who, besides, has such a pretty

young wife as yours is!”
“O Lord, no!” said Bonacieux.
D’Artagnan left the mercer and at the top of the stairs he found Planchet.
“Are you not as anxious to get news of Grimaud, Mousqueton, and Bazin as I am to know what has become of Athos,

Porthos, and Aramis?” said D’Artagnan.
“Oh yes, sir,” said Planchet; “and I will go as soon as you please. Indeed, I think country air will suit us

much better just now than the air of Paris. So then—”
“So then, pack up our necessaries, Planchet, and let us be off. On my part, I will go out ahead with my hands in

my pockets, that nothing may be suspected. You can join me at the H?tel des Gardes.”
D’Artagnan went out first, as had been agreed upon. Then, that he might have nothing to reproach himself with, he

went for the last time to the residences of his three friends. No news had been received of them; only a letter,

all perfumed, and of an elegant and delicate handwriting, had come for Aramis. D’Artagnan took charge of it. Ten

minutes afterwards Planchet joined him at the stables of the H?tel des Gardes. D’Artagnan, in order that there

might be no time lost, had saddled his horse himself.
“All right,” said he to Planchet, when the latter added the portmanteau to the equipment.
As they left the H?tel des Gardes they separated, going along the street in opposite directions, the one expecting

to leave Paris by the gate of La Villette, and the other by the gate of Montmartre, with the understanding that

they were to meet again beyond St. Denis. This, a strategic man?uvre, was executed with perfect punctuality, and

was crowned with the most fortunate results. D’Artagnan and Planchet entered Pierrefitte together.
Our two travellers arrived at Chantilly without any accident, and alighted at the hotel of the Great St.

Martin,

the same they had stopped at on their first trip.
The host, on seeing a young man followed by a lackey advanced respectfully to the door.
“I was thinking,” said the host, “that it was not the first time I had had the honour of seeing you.”
“Bah! I have passed, perhaps, ten times through Chantilly, and out of the ten times I have stopped at least three

or four times at your house. Why, I was here only ten or twelve days ago. I was conducting some friends,

musketeers, one of whom, by-the-bye, had a dispute with a stranger, a man who, for some unknown reason, sought a

quarrel with him.”
“Ah, exactly so!” said the host; “I remember it perfectly. Is it not M. Porthos that your Lordship means?”
“Yes; that is my companion’s name. Good Heavens! my dear host, has any misfortune happened to him?”
“Your honour must have observed that he could not continue his journey.”
“Why, but he promised to rejoin us, and we have seen nothing of him.”
“He has done us the honour of remaining here.”
“Well, can I see Porthos?”
“Certainly, sir. Take the stairs on your right; go up the first flight, and knock at No. I. Only warn him that it

is you.”
“Warn him! Why should I do that?”
“Nobody enters his chamber except his servant.”
“What! Mousqueton is here, then?”
“Yes, sir; five days after his departure he came back in a very bad humour. It appears that he had also met with

unpleasant experiences on his journey. Unfortunately he is more nimble that his master, so that for his master’s

sake he turns everything upside down; and as he thinks we might refuse what he asks for, he takes all he wants

without asking at all.”
“And what took place?”
“Oh, the affair was not long, I assure you. They placed themselves on guard. The stranger made a feint and a

lunge, and that so rapidly that when M. de Porthos came to parry he had already three inches of steel in his

breast. He fell on his back. The stranger immediately placed the point of his sword on his throat; and M. Porthos,

finding himself at the mercy of his adversary, confessed himself conquered. Whereupon the stranger asked his name,

and learning that it was Porthos, and not D’Artagnan, assisted him to rise, brought him back to the hotel,

mounted his horse, and disappeared.”
“Very well. Now I know all that I wished to know. Porthos’s room is, you say, on the first story, No. I?”
Saying these words, D’Artagnan went upstairs. At the top of the stairs, on the most conspicuous door of the

corridor, was traced in black ink a gigantic “No. I.” D’Artagnan knocked, and upon being told from inside to

enter, went into the chamber.
Porthos was in bed, and was playing a game of lansquenet with Mousqueton, to keep his hand in, while a spit loaded

with patridges was turning before the fire, and at each side of a large chimney-piece, over two chafing-dishes,

were boiling two stewpans, from which exhaled a double odour of rabbit and garlic stews, very grateful to the

olfactory nerves. In addition to this, he perceived that the top of a wardrobe and the marble of a stand were

covered with empty bottles.
At the sight of his friend Porthos uttered a loud cry of joy; and Mousqueton, rising respectfully, yielded his

place to him, and went to give an eye to the two stewpans, over which he appeared to have especial care.
“Ah, zounds! is that you?” said Porthos to D’Artagnan. “Welcome! Excuse my not coming to meet you. But,”

added he, looking at D’Artagnan with a certain degree of uneasiness, “you know what has happened to me?”
“Not exactly.”
“Has the landlord told you nothing, then?”
“I asked after you, and came straight up.”
Porthos seemed to breathe more freely.
“And what, then, has happened to you, my dear Porthos?” continued D’Artagnan.
“Why, on making a thrust at my adversary, whom I had already hit three times, and with whom I meant to finish by

a fourth, my foot slipped on a stone, and I sprained my knee.”
“Indeed!”
“Honour bright! Luckily for the rascal, for I should have left him dead on the spot, I assure you.”
“And what became of him?”
“Oh, I don’t know. He had enough, and set off without wanting any more. But you, my dear D’Artagnan, what has

happened to you?”
“So that this sprain,” continued D’Artagnan, “my dear Porthos, keeps you here in bed?”
“Really that’s all! I shall be about again, however, in a few days.”
While Porthos and Mousqueton were breakfasting with the appetites of convalescents, and with that brotherly

cordiality which unites men in misfortune, D’Artagnan related how Aramis had been wounded, and was obliged to

stop at Crèvec?ur; how he had left Athos fighting at Amiens with four men, who accused him of being a

counterfeiter; and how he, D’Artagnan, had been forced to pass over the Comte de Wardes’s body in order to reach

England.
But there D’Artagnan’s disclosure ended.
At that moment Planchet entered. He informed his master that the horses were sufficiently refreshed, and that it

would be possible to sleep at Clermont.
As D’Artagnan was tolerably reassured with regard to Porthos, and as he was anxious to obtain news of his two

other friends, he held out his hand to the sick man, and told him he was going to resume his route in order to

prosecute his researches. However, as he reckoned upon returning by the same road, if, in seven or eight days,

Porthos were still at the hotel of the Great St. Martin, he would call for him on his way.
Porthos replied that, according to all probability, his sprain would not permit him to depart during that time.
D’Artagnan, after having again recommended Porthos to the care of Mousqueton, and paid his reckoning to the

landlord, resumed his route with Planchet.

Chapter 24 - Aramis
D’Artagnan traversed the six or eight leagues between Chantilly and Crèvec?ur.
This time not a host but a hostess received him. D’Artagnan was a physiognomist. His eye took in at a glance the

plump, cheerful countenance of the mistress of the place, and he at once perceived there was no occasion for

dissembling with her, or of fearing anything from such a jolly woman.
“My good dame,” asked D’Artagnan, “could you tell me what has become of a friend of mine whom we were obliged

to leave here about ten days ago?”
“A handsome young man, of twenty-three or twenty-four, mild, amiable, and well made?”
“That’s it.”
“Wounded, moreover, in the shoulder?”
“Just so.”
“Well, sir, he is still here.”
“Ah, zounds! my dear dame,” said D’Artagnan, springing from his horse and throwing the bridle to Planchet,

“you restore me to life. Where is my dear Aramis? Let me embrace him! for, I confess it, I am quite anxious to

see him again.”
“Well, you have only to take the right-hand staircase in the yard, and knock at No. 5 on the second floor.”
D’Artagnan hastened in the direction pointed out, and turned the handle of the door No. 5.
The door opened, and D’Artagnan went into the chamber.
“Good-afternoon to you, dear D’Artagnan,” said Aramis. “Believe me, I am very glad to see you.”
“So am I delighted to see you,” said D’Artagnan, and he added a reference to Aramis’s wound.
“My wound, my dear D’Artagnan, has been a warning to me from Heaven.”
“Your wound? Bah! it is nearly healed, and I am sure it is not that which at the present moment gives you the

most pain.”
“What wound?” asked Aramis, colouring.
“You have one in your heart, Aramis, deeper and more painful—a wound made by a woman.”
The eye of Aramis kindled in spite of himself.
“Ah,” said he, dissembling his emotion under a feigned carelessness, “do not talk of such things. What! I think

of such things? I have love-pangs? Vanitas vanitatum! According to your idea, then, my brain is turned! And for

whom? For some grisette, some chamber-maid, whom I have courted in some garrison! Fie!”
“I crave your pardon, my dear Aramis, but I thought you aimed higher.”
“Higher? And who am I, to nourish such ambition? A poor musketeer, a beggar and unknown, who hates slavery, and

finds himself out of place in the world.”
“Well, then, let us say no more about it,” said D’Artagnan; “and let us burn this letter, which, no doubt,

announces to you some fresh infidelity of your grisette or your chambermaid.”
“What letter?” cried Aramis eagerly.
“A letter which was sent to your rooms in your absence, and which was given to me for you.”
“But whom is that letter from?”
“Oh, from some tearful waiting-maid, some despairing grisette; from Madame de Chevreuse’s chambermaid, perhaps,

who must have been obliged to return to Tours with her mistress, and who, in order to make herself attractive,

stole some perfumed paper, and sealed her letter with a duchess’s coronet.”
“What are you saying?”
“There! I really think I must have lost it,” said the young man mischievously, while pretending to search for

it. “But fortunately the world is a sepulchre; men, and consequently women also, are only shadows, and love is a

sentiment upon which you cry, ‘Fie, fie!”’
“DArtagnan! D’Artagnan!” cried Aramis, “you are killing me!”
“At last, here it is!” said D’Artagnan. He drew the letter from his pocket.
Aramis sprang towards him, seized the letter, read it, or rather devoured it, his countenance absolutely beaming

with delight.
“Your waiting-maid seems to have an agreeable style,” said the carrier carelessly.
“Thanks, D’Artagnan, thanks!” cried Aramis, almost in a stare of delirium. “She was forced to return to Tours;

she is not faithless; she still loves me! Come, dear friend, come, let me embrace you; happiness stifles me!” And

the two friends began to dance round.
At that moment Bazin entered.
“Be off, you scoundrel!” cried Aramis. “Order a larded hare, a fat capon, a leg of mutton with garlic, and four

bottles of old Burgundy! ’Sdeath! let us drink while the wine is fresh. Let us drink heartily, and tell me

something about what is going on in the world yonder.”

Chapter 25 - The Wife of Athos
“Now we still have to get news of Athos,” said D’Artagnan to the vivacious Aramis, when he had informed him of

all that had passed since their departure from the capital, and when a good dinner had made one of them forget his

woes and the other his fatigue.
“Do you think any harm can have happened to him?” asked Aramis. “Athos is so cool, so brave, and handles his

sword so skilfully.”
“There is no doubt of that. Nobody has a higher opinion of the courage and skill of Athos than I have; but I like

better to hear my sword clang against lances than against staves. I fear lest Athos has been carried down by a mob

of menials. Those fellows strike hard, and don’t leave off in a hurry. This is my reason for wishing to set out

again as soon as I possibly can.”
“I will try to accompany you,” said Aramis, “though I scarcely feel in a condition to mount on horseback. When

do you set out?”
“To-morrow at daybreak.”
“Till to-morrow, then,” said Aramis; “for though you are made of iron you must need repose.”
The next morning, when D’Artagnan entered Aramis’s chamber, he found him standing at the window.
“My dear Aramis; take care of yourself,” said he; “I will go alone in search of Athos.”
“You are a man of bronze,” replied Aramis.
“No, I have good luck, that is all. But how do you mean to pass your time till I come back?”
Aramis smiled. “I will make verses,” said he.
“Yes, verses perfumed with the odour of the note from Madame de Chevreuse’s serving-maid.”
“Oh, make yourself easy on that head,” replied Aramis; “you will find me ready to follow you.”
They took leave of each other, and ten minutes later, after commending his friend to the care of Bazin and the

hostess, D’Artagnan was trotting along in the direction of Amiens.
About eleven o’clock in the morning they perceived Ameins. At half-past eleven they were at the door of the

cursed inn.
D’Artagnan related to Athos how he had found Porthos and Aramis. As he finished, the landlord entered with wine

and a ham.
“Good!” said Athos, filling his glass and D’Artagnan’s. “Here’s to Porthos and Aramis! But, my friend, what

is the matter with you, and what has happened to you personally? You don’t look happy.”
“Alas!” said D’Artagnan, “it is because I am the most unfortunate of all.”
“You unfortunate!” said Athos. “Come! how the devil can you be unfortunate? Tell me that.”
“Presently,” said D’Artagnan.
“Presently! And why presently? Because you think I am drunk, D’Artagnan? Keep this in mind: my ideas are never

so clear as when I have had plenty of wine. Speak, then; I am all ears.”
D’Artagnan related his adventure with Madame Bonacieux. Athos listened to him without moving a muscle, and when

he had finished,
“Trifles all that,” said Athos—“nothing but trifles!” That was Athos’s favourite expression.
“You always say trifles, my dear Athos,” said D’Artagnan, “and that comes very ill from you, who have never

been in love.”
Athos’s dull eye flashed suddenly, but it was only a flash; it became dull and vacant as before.
“True,” said he quietly, “I have never been in love.”
“Acknowledge, then, you stony-hearted man,” said D’Artagnan, “that you have no right to be so hard on us whose

hearts are tender.”
“Your misfortune is laughable,” said Athos, shrugging his shoulders. “I should like to know what you would say

if I were to relate to you a real tale of love.”
“Which concerns you?”
“Or one of my friends. What difference does it make?”
“Tell it, Athos, tell it.”
“Let us drink! That will be better.”
“Drink while you tell it!”
“Not a bad idea!” said Athos, emptying and filling his glass; “the two things go marvellously well together.”
“I am all attention,” said D’Artagnan.
Athos collected himself, and in proportion as he did so, D’Artagnan saw that he became paler. He was at that

period of intoxication in which vulgar drinkers fall on the floor and go to sleep. But he dreamed aloud, without

sleeping. This somnambulism of drunkenness had something frightful about it.

“You absolutely wish it?” he asked.
“I beg you to do it,” said D’Artagnan.
“Be it, then, as you desire. A friend of mine—please to observe, a friend of mine, not myself,” said Athos,

interrupting himself with a gloomy smile—“one of the counts of my province (that is to say, of Berry), noble as

a Dandolo or a Montmorency, when he was twenty-five years old fell in love with a girl of sixteen, beautiful as an

angel. Through the ingenuousness of her age beamed an ardent mind—not a woman’s mind, but a poet’s. She did not

please; she intoxicated. She lived in a small town with her brother, who was a vicar. Both had recently come into

the country. Nobody knew where they came from; but on seeing her so lovely and her brother so pious, nobody

thought of asking where they came from. They were said, however, to be of good extraction. My friend, who was lord

of the country, might have seduced her; or he might have seized her forcibly, at his will, for he was master. Who

would have come to the assistance of two strangers, two unknown persons? Unfortunately, he was an honourable man;

he married her. The fool! the ass! the idiot!”
“How so, if he loved her?” asked D’Artagnan.
“Wait!” said Athos. “He took her to his chateau, and made her the first lady in the province; and in justice,

it must be allowed she supported her rank becomingly.”
“Well?” asked D’Artagnan.
“Well, one day when she was hunting with her husband,” continued Athos, in a low voice, and speaking very

quickly, “she fell from her horse and fainted. The count flew to her help; and as she appeared to be oppressed by

her clothes, he ripped them open with his poniard, and in so doing laid bare her shoulder. Guess, D’Artagnan,”

said Athos, with a loud burst of laughter—“guess what she had on her shoulder.”
“How can I tell?” said D’Artagnan.
“A fleur-de-lis!” said Athos. “She was branded!”
And Athos emptied at a single draught the glass he held in his hand.
“Horrors,” cried D’Artagnan. “What are you telling me?”
“The truth. My friend, the angle was a demon. The poor young girl had been a thief.”
“And what did the count do?”
“The count was a great noble. He had on his estates the right of life and death. He tore the countess’s dress to

pieces, tied her hands behind her, and hanged her on a tree!”
“Heavens, Athos, a murder!” cried D’Artagnan.
“Yes, a murder—nothing else,” said Athos, pale as death. “But methinks I am left without wine!” And he seized

by the neck the last bottle that remained, put it to his mouth, and emptied it at a single draught, as he would

have emptied an ordinary glass.
Then he let his head fall on his two hands, while D’Artagnan sat facing him, overwhelmed with dismay.
“That has cured me of beautiful, poetical, and loving women,” said Athos, getting to his feet, and neglecting to

pursue the apologue of the count. “God grant you as much! Let us drink!”
“Then she is dead?” stammered D’Artagnan.
“Zounds!” said Athos. “But hold out your glass. Some ham, my man!” cried Athos; “we can drink no longer!”
“And her brother?” asked D’Artagnan timidly.
“Her brother?” replied Athos.
“Yes, the priest.”
“Oh, I inquired after him for the purpose of hanging him likewise; but he was beforehand with me—he had quitted

the curacy instantly.”
“Was it ever known who this miserable fellow was?”
“He was doubtless the fair lady’s first lover and accomplice—a worthy man, who had pretended to be a curate for

the purpose of getting his mistress married and securing her a position. He has been quartered before this time, I

hope.”
“My God! my God!” cried D’Artagnan, quite stunned by the relation of this horrible adventure.
“Pray eat some of this ham, D’Artagnan; it is exquisite,” said Athos, cutting a slice, which he placed on the

young man’s plate. “What a pity it is there are only four like this in the cellar! I could have drunk fifty

bottles more.”
D’Artagnan could no longer endure this conversation, which would have driven him crazy. He let his head fall on

his hands and pretended to go to sleep.
“Young men no longer know how to drink,” said Athos, looking at him pityingly, “and yet this is one of the best

of them, too!”
Their only anxiety now was to depart. D’Artagnan and Athos soon arrived at Crévec?ur. From a distance they

perceived Aramis, seated in a melancholy manner at his window, looking out, like Sister Anne, at the dust in the

horizon.

“Hello, ha, Aramis!” cried the two friends.
“Ah, it is you, D’Artagnan, and you, Athos,” said the young man. “And so, my friends, we are returning, then,

to Paris? Bravo! I am charged his bill, and then set forward to join Porthos.
They made a halt for an hour to refresh their horses. Aramis discharged his bill, and then set forward to poin

Porthos.
They found him up, not so pale as when D’Artagnan left him, and seated at a table, on which, though he was alone,

was spread dinner enough for four persons. This dinner consisted of meats nicely dressed, choice wines, and superb

fruit.
“Ah, by Jove!” said he, rising, “you come in the nick of time. Gentlemen, I was just at the soup, and you will

dine with me.”
The four friends, having set their minds at ease with regard to the future, did honour to the repast, the remains

of which were abandoned to MM. Mousqueton, Bazin, Planchet, and Grimaud.
On arriving in Paris, D’Artagnan found a letter from M. de Tréville, informing him that, at his request, the king

had just promised him his immediate admission into the musketeers.
As this was the height of D’Artagnan’s worldly ambition—apart, of course, from his desire of finding Madame

Bonacieux—he ran, full of joy, to seek his comrades, whom he had left only half an hour before. He found them

very sad and deeply preoccupied. They were assembed in council at the residence of Athos, which always indicated

an event of some seriousness.
M. de Tréville had just informed them that since it was his Majesty’s fixed intention to open the campaign on the

first of May, they must immediately get ready all their equipments.
The four philosophers looked at one another in a state of bewilderment. M. de Tréville never joked in matters

relating to discipline.
“And what do you reckon your equipments will cost?” said D’Artagnan.
“Oh, we can scarcely venture to say. We have just made our calculations with Spartan niggardliness, and we each

require fifteen hundred livres.”
“Four times fifteen make sixty—ah! six thousand livres,” said Athos.
“For my part, I think,” said D’Artagnan, “with a thousand livres each—it is true I do not speak as a Spartan,

but as a procureur—”
The word procureur roused Porthos.
“Stop!” said he; “I have an idea.”
“Well, that’s something. For my part, I have not the shadow of one,” said Athos coolly. “But as to D’

Artagnan, the hope of soon being one of us, gentlemen, has made him crazy. A thousand livres! I declare I want two

thousand myself.”
“Four times two make eight, then,” said Aramis. “It is eight thousand that we want to complete our outfit.”
“One thing more!” said Athos, waiting till D’Artagnan, who was going to thank M. de Tréville, had shut the

door, “one thing more—that beautiful diamond which glitters on our friend’s finger. What the devil! D’Artagnan

is too good a comrade to leave his brothers in embarrassment while he wears a king’s ransom on his middle finger.

”

Chapter 26 - Milady
As porthos had first found his idea, and had thought of it earnestly afterwards, he was the first to act. This

worthy Porthos was a man of execution. D’Artagnan perceived him one day walking toward the church of St. Leu, and

followed him instinctively. He entered the holy place. D’Artagnan entered behind him. Porthos went and leaned

against one side of a pillar. D’Artagnan, still unperceived, leaned against the other side of it.
There happened to be a sermon, and this made the church very full of people. Porthos took advantage of this

circumstance to ogle the women.
D’Artagnan observed, on the bench nearest to the pillar against which he and Porthos were learning, a sort of

ripe beauty, rather yellow and rather dry, but erect and haughty under her black hood. Porthos’s eyes were

furtively cast upon this lady, and then roved about at large over the nave.
On her side, the lady, who from time to time blushed, darted with the rapidity of lightning a glance toward the

inconstant Porthos, and then immediately Porthos’s eyes went wandering over the church anxiously. It was plain

that this was a mode of proceeding that deeply piqued the lady in the black hood, for she bit her lips till they

bled, scratched the end of her nose, and sat very uneasily in her seat.
Porthos, seeing this, began to make signals to a beautiful lady who was near the choir, and who was not only a

beautiful lady, but also, no doubt, a great lady, for she had behind her a negro boy, who had brought the cushion

on which she knelt, and a female servant, who held the emblazoned bag in which was placed the book from which she

followed the service.
The lady of the red cushion produced a great effect—for she was very handsome—on the lady in the black hood, who

saw in her a rival to be really dreaded; a great effect on Porthos, who thought her much prettier than the lady in

the black hood; a great effect upon D’Artagnan, who recognized in her the lady of Meung, of Calais, whom his

persecutor, the man with the scar, had saluted by the name of milady.
The sermon over, the solicitor’s wife advanced toward the font of holy water. Porthos went before her, and

instead of a finger, dipped his whole hand in.
“Eh, Monsieur Porthos, you don’t offer me any holy water?”
Porthos, at the sound of her voice, started like a man awakening from a sleep of a hundred years.
“Ma—madame!” cried he, “is that you? How is your husband, our dear Monsieur Coquenard? Is he still as stingy

as ever? Where can my eyes have been not to have perceived you during the two hours the sermon has lasted?”
“I was within two paces of you, sir,” replied the solicitor’s wife; “but you did not perceive me, because you

had eyes only for the pretty lady.”
Porthos pretended to be confused.
“Ah,” said he, “you have noticed—”
“I must have been blind if I had not.”
“Yes,” said Porthos carelessly, “that is a duchess of my acquaintance, whom I have great trouble to meet on

account of her husband’s jealousy, and who sent me word that she would come to-day, solely for the purpose of

seeing me in this poor church, in this vile quarter.”
“Monsieur Porthos,” said the procureuse, “will you have the kindness to offer me your arm for five minutes? I

have something to say to you.”
“Certainly madame,” said Porthos, winking to himself, as a gambler does who laughs at the dupe he is about to

pluck.
At that moment D’Artagnan was passing in pursuit of milady. He cast a glance at Porthos, and beheld his

triumphant look.
“Ah, ha!” said he to himself, reasoning in accordance with the strangely easy morality of that gallant period,

“here is one of us, at least, on the road to be equipped in time.”
D’Artagnan had followed milady, without being perceived by her. He saw her get into her carriage, and heard her

order the coachman to drive to St. Germain.
It was useless to endeavour to keep pace on foot with a carriage drawn by two powerful horses, so D’Artagnan

returned to the Rue Férou.
In the Rue de Seine he met Planchet, who had stopped before a bake-shop, and was contemplating with ecstasy a cake

of the most appetizing appearance.
D’Artagnan and Planchet got into the saddle, and took the road to St. Germain.

Milady had spoken to the man in the black cloak, therefore she knew him. Now, in D’Artagnan’s opinion it was

certainly the man in the black cloak who had carried off Madame Bonacieux the second time, as he had carried her

off the first.
Thinking of all this, and from time to time giving his horse a touch of the spur, D’Artagnan completed his

journey, and arrived at St. Germain. He was riding along a very quiet street, when from the ground floor of a

pretty house, he saw a form appear that looked familiar. This person in question was walking along a kind of

terrace, ornamented with flowers. Planchet recognized who it was first.
“Why, it is poor Lubin,” said Planchet, “the lackey of the Comte de Wardes, whom you so well accommodated a

month ago at Calais, on the road to the governor’s country house.”
“So it is,” said D’Artagnan; “I know him now. Do you think he would recollect you?”
“’Pon my word, sir, he was so greatly disturbed that I don’t think he can have retained a very clear

recollection of me.”
“Well, go and get into conversation with him, and find out, if you can, whether his master is dead or not.”
Planchet dismounted and went straight up to Lubin, who did not recognize him, and the two lackeys began to chat

with the best understanding possible, while D’Artagnan turned the two horses into a lane, and went round the

house so as to be present at the conference, coming back to take his place behind a hedge of hazels.
After a moment’s watching from behind the hedge he heard the noise of a carriage, and saw milady’s coach stop in

front of him. He could not be mistaken; milady was in it. D’Artagnan bent over on his horse’s neck in order to

see everything without being seen.
Milady put her charming fair head out at the window, and gave some orders to her maid.
D’Artagnan followed the maid with his eyes, and saw her going towards the terrace. But it happened that some one

in the house had called Lubin, so that Planchet remained alone, looking in all directions for D’Artagnan.
The maid approached Planchet, whom she took for Lubin, and holding out a little note to him,
“For your master,” said she.
Thereupon she ran toward the carriage, which had turned round in the direction it had come; she jumped on the

step, and the carriage drove off.
Planchet turned the note over and over; then, accustomed to passive obedience, he jumped down from the terrace,

ran through the lane, and at the end of twenty paces met D’Artagnan, who, having seen all, was coming to him.
“D’Artagnan opened the letter and read these words:
“A person who takes more interest in you than she is willing to confess wishes to know on what day you will be in

condition to walk in the forest. To-morrow, at the H?tel Field of the Cloth of Gold, a lackey in black and red

will wait for your reply.”
“Oh, ho!” said D’Artagnan, “this is rather lively. It appears that milady and I are anxious about the health

of the same person.—Well, Planchet, how is our good M. de Wardes? He is not dead, then?”
“Oh no, monsieur; he is as well as a man can be with four sword-wounds in his body—for you, without question,

inflicted four upon the dear gentleman, and he is still very weak, having lost almost all his blood. As I told

you, Lubin did not know me, and he related to me our adventure from one end to the other.”
“Well done, Planchet! you are the king of lackeys. Now jump up on your horse, and let us overtake the carriage.”
This they soon did. At the end of five minutes they perceived the carriage drawn up by the roadside. A cavalier

richly dressed was close to the coach door.
The conversation between milady and the cavalier was so animated that D’Artagnan stopped on the other side of the

carriage without any one but the pretty maid being aware of his presence.
The conversation took place in English—a language which D’Artagnan could not understand; but by the accent the

young man plainly saw that the beautiful Englishwoman was in a great rage. She terminated it by a gesture which

left no doubt as to the nature of this conversation: this was a blow with her fan, applied with such force that

the little feminine weapon flew into a thousand pieces.
The cavalier broke into a loud laugh, which appeared to exasperate milady.
D’Artagnan thought this was the moment to interfere. He approached the other door, and taking off his hat

respectfully,
“Madame,” said he, “will you permit me to offer you my services? This cavalier seems to have made you very

angry. Speak one word, madame, and I will take it on myself to punish him for his lack of courtesy.”
At the first word milady turned round, looking at the young man in astonishment; and when he had finished,
“Sir,” said she, in very good French, “I should with great confidence place myself under your protection, if

the person who is picking a quarrel with me were not my brother.”

“Ah, excuse me, then,” said D’Artagnan; “you must be aware that I was ignorant of that, madame.”
“What is that presumptuous fellow troubling himself about?” cried the cavalier whom milady had designated as her

brother, stooping down to the height of the coach window, “and why does he not go on?”
“Presumptuous fellow yourself!” said D’Artagnan, also bending down on his horse’s neck and answering through

the carriage window. “I do not go on because it pleases me to stop here.”
You might think that milady, timid as women are in general, would have interposed at this beginning of mutual

provocations in order to prevent the quarrel from going too far; but, on the contrary, she threw herself back in

her carriage, and called out coolly to the coachman, “Drive home!”
The pretty maid cast an anxious glance at D’Artagnan, whose good looks seemed to have produced an impression on

her.
The carriage went on, and left the two men face to face, no material obstacle separating them any longer.
“Well, sir,” said D’Artagnan, “you appear to be more presumptuous that I am, for you forget there is a little

quarrel to arrange between us.”
“You see well enough that I have no sword,” said the Englishman. “Do you wish to play the braggart with an

unarmed man?”
“I hope you have a sword at home,” replied D’Artagnan. “But, at all events, I have two, and if you like I will

throw with you for one of them.”
“Quite unnecessary,” said the Englishman; “I am well furnished with such sorts of playthings.”
“Very well, my worthy gentleman,” replied D’Artagnan; “pick out the longest, and come and show it to me this

evening.”
“Where?”
“Behind the Luxembourg. That’s a charming place for such strolls as the one I propose to you.”
“Very well; I will be there.”
“Your hour?”
“Six o’clock. Now, then, who are you?” asked the Englishman.
“I am M. D’Artagnan, a Gascon gentleman, serving in the guards, in the company of M. des Essarts. And you?”
“I am Lord Winter, Baron of Sheffield.”
“Well, then, I am your servant, baron,” said D’Artagnan, “though your names are rather difficult to remember.

”
And touching his horse with his spur, he galloped back to Paris.
And D’Artagnan employed himself in arranging a little plan, the carrying out of which we shall see later on, and

which promised him an agreeable adventure, as might be seen by the smiles which from time to time passed over his

countenance, lighting up his thoughtful expression.

Chapter 27 - English and French
The hour having come, he repaired to a yard behind the Luxembourg where goats were kept. He threw a piece of money

to the goatkeeper to withdraw.
A silent party soon drew near to the same enclosure, and came into it.
“Sir,” said D’Artagnan, “are we ready?”
“Yes!” answered the Englishman.
“On guard, then!” cried D’Artagnan.
And immediately two swords glittered in the rays of the setting sun, and the combat began with an animosity very

natural to men who were enemies.
As to D’Artagnan, he fought purely and simply on the defensive. Then when he saw his adversary pretty well

fatigued, with a vigorous side-thrust he knocked his sword from his grasp. The baron, finding himself disarmed,

retreated two or three paces; but at this moment his foot slipped, and he fell backward.
D’Artagnan was on him at a bound, and placing his sword on his throat,
“I could kill you, sir,” said he to the Englishman; “you are quite at my mercy, but I spare your life for your

sister’s sake.”
D’Artagnan was overjoyed. He had just realized the plan which he had conceived the development of which had

occasioned the smiles we mentioned.
The Englishman, delighted at having to do with such a generous gentleman, pressed D’Artagnan in his arms, and

paid a thousand compliments to him.
“And now, my young friend—for you will permit me, I hope, to call you by that name,” said Lord Winter—“on

this very evening, if agreeable to you, I will present you to my sister, Lady Clarick. For I am desirous that she

in her turn should take you into her good graces; and as she is in favour at court, perhaps, in the future, a word

spoken by her might prove useful to you.”
D’Artagnan reddened with pleasure and bowed his assent.
Lord Winter, on quitting D’Artagnan, gave him his sister’s address. She lived at No. 6 Place Royale, then the

fashionable quarter. Moreover, he promised to call and get him in order to present him. D’Artagnan appointed

eight o’clock at Athos’s residence.
Lord Winter, arrived at the appointed time; but Athos, being warned of his coming, went into the other chamber.

The Englishman accordingly found D’Artagnan alone, and as it was nearly eight o’clock, he took the young man

with him.
An elegant coach below, drawn by two excellent horses, was waiting. They were soon at the Place Royale.
Milady Clarick received D’Artagnan seriously.
“You see,” said Lord Winter, presenting D’Artagnan to his sister, “a young gentleman who has held my life in

his hands, and who has not abused his advantage, although we were doubly enemies, since it was I who insulted him,

and since I am an Englishman. Thank him, then, madame, if you have any affection for me.”
Milady frowned slightly; a scarcely visible cloud passed over her brow, and such a peculiar smile appeared on her

lips that the young man, observing this triple shade, almost shuddered at it.
“You are welcome, sir,” said milady, in a voice the singular sweetness of which contrasted with the symptoms of

ill-humour which D’Artagnan had just remarked; “you have to-day acquired eternal rights to my gratitude.”
The pretty little maid whom D’Artagnan had already observed then came in. She spoke some words in English to Lord

Winter, who immediately requested D’Artagnan’s permission to retire, excusing himself on account of the urgency

of the business that called him away, and charging his sister to obtain his pardon.
D’Artagnan shook hands with Lord Winter, and then returned to milady. Her countenance, with surprising mobility,

had recovered its gracious expression.
The conversation took a cheerful turn. She told D’Artagnan that Lord Winter was only her brother-in law, and not

her brother. She had married a younger brother of the family, who had left her a widow with one child. This child

was Lord Winter’s sole heir, if Lord Winter did not marry. All this showed D’Artagnan that there was a veil

hiding something, but he could not yet see under this veil.
Moreover, after half an hour’s conversation D’Artagnan was convinced that milady was his compatriot. She spoke

French with a purity and an elegance that left no doubt on that head.
He was profuse in gallant speeches and protestations of devotion. To all the nonsense which escaped our Gascon,

milady replied with a smile of kindness. The hour for retiring arrived. D’Artagnan took leave of milady, and left

the parlour the happiest of men.
On the stairs he met the pretty maid, who brushed gently against him as she passed, and then, blushing to the

eyes, asked his pardon for having touched him in so sweet a voice that the pardon was granted instantly.
D’Artagnan came again on the morrow, and was even better received than on the day before. Lord Winter was not at

home, and milady this time did all the honours of the evening. She appeared to take a great interest in him, and

asked him where he was from, who were his friends, and whether he had not at some times thought of attaching

himself to the cardinal.
D’Artagnan, who, as we have said, was exceedingly prudent for a young man of twenty, then remembered his

suspicions regarding milady. He launched into a eulogy of his Eminence, and said that he should not have failed to

enlist in the cardinal’s guards interest of the king’s if he had only known M. de Cavois instead of M. de

Tréville.
Milady changed the conversation without any appearance of affecation, and asked D’Artagnan, in the most careless

manner possible, if he had never been in England.
D’Artagnan replied that he had been sent there by M. de Tréville to bargain for some new horses.
At the same hour as on the preceding evening D’Artagnan retired. In the corridor he again met the pretty Kitty;

that was the maid’s name. She looked at him with an expression of good-will which it was impossible to mistake.

But D’Artagnan was so preoccupied by her mistress that he noticed absolutely nothing which did not come from her.
D’Artagnan came again on the morrow and the day after that, and each day milady gave him a more gracious welcome.
Every evening, either in the antechamber, the corridor, or on the stairs, he met the pretty maid. But, as we have

said, D’Artagnan paid no attention to poor Kitty’s persistence.