who affirmed, as I said, that he had received orders from his master or mistress to place the horse in my stable, without informing me whence it came.”
“It is only to poets that such things happen,” said Athos, gravely.
“Well, in that case, we can manage famously,” said d’Artagnan; “which of the two horses will you ride—that which you bought or the one that was given to you?”
“That which was given to me, assuredly. You cannot for a moment imagine, d’Artagnan, that I would commit such an offense toward—”
“The unknown giver,” interrupted d’Artagnan.
“Or the mysterious benefactress,” said Athos.
“The one you bought will then become useless to you?”
“Nearly so.”
“And you selected it yourself?”
“With the greatest care. The safety of the horseman, you know, depends almost always upon the goodness of his horse.”
“Well, transfer it to me at the price it cost you?”
“I was going to make you the offer, my dear d’Artagnan, giving you all the time necessary for repaying me such a trifle.”
“How much did it cost you?”
“Eight hundred livres.”
“Here are forty double pistoles, my dear friend,” said d’Artagnan, taking the sum from his pocket; “I know that is the coin in which you were paid for your poems.”
“You are rich, then?” said Aramis.
“Rich? Richest, my dear fellow!”
And d’Artagnan chinked the remainder of his pistoles in his pocket.
“Send your saddle, then, to the hotel of the Musketeers, and your horse can be brought back with ours.”
“Very well; but it is already five o’clock, so make haste.”
A quarter of an hour afterward Porthos appeared at the end of the Rue Ferou on a very handsome genet. Mousqueton followed him upon an Auvergne horse, small but very handsome. Porthos was resplendent with joy and pride.
At the same time, Aramis made his appearance at the other end of the street upon a superb English charger. Bazin followed him upon a roan, holding by the halter a vigorous Mecklenburg horse; this was d’Artagnan’s mount.
The two Musketeers met at the gate. Athos and d’Artagnan watched their approach from the window.
“The devil!” cried Aramis, “you have a magnificent horse there, Porthos.”
“Yes,” replied Porthos, “it is the one that ought to have been sent to me at first. A bad joke of the husband’s substituted the other; but the husband has been punished since, and I have obtained full satisfaction.”
Planchet and Grimaud appeared in their turn, leading their masters’ steeds. D’Artagnan and Athos put themselves into saddle with their companions, and all four set forward; Athos upon a horse he owed to a woman, Aramis on a horse he owed to his mistress, Porthos on a horse he owed to his procurator’s wife, and d’Artagnan on a horse he owed to his good fortune—the best mistress possible.
The lackeys followed.
As Porthos had foreseen, the cavalcade produced a good effect; and if Mme. Coquenard had met Porthos and seen what a superb appearance he made upon his handsome Spanish genet, she would not have regretted the bleeding she had inflicted upon the strongbox of her husband.
Near the Louvre the four friends met with M. de Treville, who was returning from St. Germain; he stopped them to offer his compliments upon their appointments, which in an instant drew round them a hundred gapers.
D’Artagnan profited by the circumstance to speak to M. de Treville of the letter with the great red seal and the cardinal’s arms. It is well understood that he did not breathe a word about the other.
M de Treville approved of the resolution he had adopted, and assured him that if on the morrow he did not appear, he himself would undertake to find him, let him be where he might.
At this moment the clock of La Samaritaine struck six; the four friends pleaded an engagement, and took leave of M. de Treville.
A short gallop brought them to the road of Chaillot; the day began to decline, carriages were passing and repassing. D’Artagnan, keeping at some distance from his friends, darted a scrutinizing glance into every carriage that appeared, but saw no face with which he was acquainted.
At length, after waiting a quarter of an hour and just as twilight was beginning to thicken, a carriage appeared, coming at a quick pace on the road of Sevres. A presentiment instantly told d’Artagnan that this carriage contained the person who had appointed the rendezvous; the young man was himself astonished to find his heart beat so violently. Almost instantly a female head was put out at the window, with two fingers placed upon her mouth, either to enjoin silence or to send him a kiss. D’Artagnan uttered a slight cry of joy; this woman, or rather this apparition—for the carriage passed with the rapidity of a vision—was Mme. Bonacieux.
By an involuntary movement and in spite of the injunction given, d’Artagnan put his horse into a gallop, and in a few strides overtook the carriage; but the window was hermetically closed, the vision had disappeared.
D’Artagnan then remembered the injunction: “If you value your own life or that of those who love you, remain motionless, and as if you had seen nothing.”
He stopped, therefore, trembling not for himself but for the poor woman who had evidently exposed herself to great danger by appointing this rendezvous.
The carriage pursued its way, still going at a great pace, till it dashed into Paris, and disappeared.
D’Artagnan remained fixed to the spot, astounded and not knowing what to think. If it was Mme. Bonacieux and if she was returning to Paris, why this fugitive rendezvous, why this simple exchange of a glance, why this lost kiss? If, on the other side, it was not she—which was still quite possible—for the little light that remained rendered a mistake easy—might it not be the commencement of some plot against him through the allurement of this woman, for whom his love was known?
His three companions joined him. All had plainly seen a woman’s head appear at the window, but none of them, except Athos, knew Mme. Bonacieux. The opinion of Athos was that it was indeed she; but less preoccupied by that pretty face than d’Artagnan, he had fancied he saw a second head, a man’s head, inside the carriage.
“If that be the case,” said d’Artagnan, “they are doubtless transporting her from one prison to another. But what can they intend to do with the poor creature, and how shall I ever meet her again?”
“Friend,” said Athos, gravely, “remember that it is the dead alone with whom we are not likely to meet again on this earth. You know something of that, as well as I do, I think. Now, if your mistress is not dead, if it is she we have just seen, you will meet with her again some day or other. And perhaps, my God!” added
