been said to him.
“But, Mr. Commissary,” he timidly observed, “believe me, that I know well and appreciate the incomparable merit of his eminence, by whom we have the honour of being governed.”
“Really!” said the commissary; with a doubtful look; “but if this be true, how came you to be in the Bastile?”
“How I am there, or rather, why I am there,” replied Bonancieux, “is what it is utterly impossible for me to tell you, seeing that I do not know myself; but most certainly it is not for having offended the cardinal, consciously at least.”
“It is certain, nevertheless, that you must have committed some crime, as you are here accused of high treason.”
“Of high treason!” cried Bonancieux, confounded; “of high treason! And how can you believe that a poor mercer, who hates the Huguenots, and abhors the Spaniards, can be accused of high treason? Reflect, sir—the thing is a moral impossibility.”
“M. Bonancieux,” said the commissary, regarding the accused with his little eyes, as though he had the power of looking into the very depths of his heart, “M. Bonancieux, you have a wife.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the trembling mercer, perceiving that it was on her account that he was now about to be inculpated; “that is to say, I had one.”
“What? you had one! And what have you done with her, that you have her no longer?”
“Some one has carried her off, sir!”
“Some one has taken her from you?” said the commissary. “Ah!”
Bonancieux perceived by this “ah!” that matters were getting worse and worse.
“Some one has taken her from you,” resumed the commissary. “And do you know who has been guilty of this abduction?”
“I think I know.”
“Who is it?”
“Remember that I affirm nothing, Mr. Commissary—I only suspect.”
“Whom do you suspect? Come, don’t hesitate to speak.”
M. Bonancieux was in the greatest perplexity. Ought he to deny everything, or to confess? From a total denial, it might be inferred that he knew too much to admit; and, by a general confession, he might give evidence of his good faith.
He determined, therefore, to have no concealments.
“I suspect,” said he, “a tall, dark man, of lofty air, who has all the appearance of a man of rank. He followed us, I think, many times, when I went to fetch my wife from the gate of the Louvre.”
The commissary appeared somewhat disturbed.
“And his name?” said he.
“Oh! as to his name, I do not know it; but if I should meet him, I could recognise him amongst a thousand persons.”
The brow of the commissary grew dark.
“You could recognise him amongst a thousand, you say?” continued he.
“That is to say,” replied Bonancieux, who saw that he had made a false step, “that is to say—”
“You have said that you could recognise him,” said the commissary; “very well, that is enough for today; it is necessary, before we proceed any further, that some one should be informed that you know the person who has carried off your wife.”
“But I did not tell you that I knew him!” cried M. Bonancieux, in despair. “I told you, on the contrary—”
“Take away the prisoner!” exclaimed the commissary to the two guards.
“Where to?” asked the registrar.
“To a dungeon.”
“To which?”
“Oh! to the first that offers, provided it be secure,” answered the commissary, with an indifference which filled the breast of poor Bonancieux with horror and dismay.
“Alas! alas!” said he, “I am undone. My wife must have committed some frightful crime; and I am supposed to be an accomplice, and shall be punished with her. She must have said something—have confessed that I was her confidant. A woman is such a weak creature! A dungeon! The first that offers! that’s it. A night is soon passed; and then, tomorrow, to the wheel, to the gibbet! Oh! my God, my God, have pity on me!”
Without in the least attending to the lamentations of Master Bonancieux, that were of a kind to which they were tolerably well accustomed, the two guards took him by the arms, and led him away, while the commissary hastily wrote a letter, for which his officer waited.
Bonancieux did not close an eye; not because his dungeon was very uncomfortable, but because his anxiety was very great. He sat upon his stool the whole night, trembling at every noise; and when the first rays of light penetrated his chamber, Aurora herself appeared to him to be dressed in funereal array.
Suddenly he heard the bolts withdrawn, and gave a terrible start. He believed that they were coming to conduct him to the scaffold; and, therefore, when he saw that it was only the commissary and his attendant, he was almost ready to embrace them.
“Your affair has become sadly complicated since last evening, my fine fellow,” said the commissary. “I advise you to tell the whole truth, for your repentance alone can mitigate the anger of the cardinal.”
“But I am ready to tell everything,” said Bonancieux; “everything, at least, that I know; question me, I beseech you!”
“In the first place, where is your wife?”
“I have just told you that some one has carried her off.”
“Yes, but since five o’clock yesterday evening, thanks to you, she has escaped.”
“My wife escaped!” cried Bonancieux; “oh! the wretch! Sir, if she has escaped, I assure you it is not my fault!”
“What were you doing, then, in the apartment of your neighbour, M. d’Artagnan, with whom you had a long conference in the course of the day?”
“Ah, yes, Mr. Commissary, yes, that is true; and I confess I was wrong in that; yes, I was in M. d’Artagnan’s apartments.”
“And why?”
“To entreat him to assist me in finding my wife. I thought I had a right to reclaim her. I was mistaken, it appears, and I humbly beg your pardon.”
“And what answer did M. d’Artagnan give?”
“M. d’Artagnan promised me his assistance; but I soon perceived that he betrayed me.”
“You would mislead justice! M. d’Artagnan made an agreement with you; and in virtue of that agreement, he put to flight the officers who had arrested your wife, and has now secreted her from all our researches.”
“M. d’Artagnan
