scar on his forehead!” cried d’Artagnan; “and with white teeth, piercing eyes, dark complexion, and proud air—it is my man of Meung!”
“Your man, do you say?”
“Yes, yes!” said d’Artagnan; “but that has nothing to do with this affair. Yet I mistake! It has, on the contrary, a great deal to do with it; for if your man is mine also, I shall at one blow perform two acts of revenge. But where can I meet with him?”
“I have not the slightest idea.”
“Have you no clue to his abode?”
“None whatever. One day, when I accompanied my wife to the Louvre, he came out as she entered, and she pointed him out to me.”
“Plague on it!” murmured d’Artagnan; “this is all very vague. But how did you hear of the abduction of your wife?”
“From M. de la Porte.”
“Did he tell you the details?”
“He knew none.”
“You have got no information from other quarters?”
“Yes, I have received—”
“What?”
“But I know not whether I should inform you.”
“You return to your hesitation; but permit me to observe, that you have now advanced too far to recede.”
“I do not draw back,” exclaimed the citizen, accompanying the assurance with an oath, to support his courage; besides, on the honour of Bonancieux—”
“Then your name is Bonancieux?” interrupted d’Artagnan.
“Yes, that is my name.”
“You say, on the honour of Bonancieux! Pardon this interruption, but the name appears not to be unknown to me.”
“It is very possible, sir, for I am your landlord.”
“Ah, ah!” said d’Artagnan, half rising, “ah, you are my landlord?”
“Yes, sir, yes; and as for the three months that you have been in my house (diverted, no doubt, by your great and splendid occupations), you have forgotten to pay me my rent, and as, likewise, I have not once asked you for payment, I thought that you would have some regard on account of my delicacy in that respect.”
“Why, I have no alternative, my dear M. Bonancieux,” answered d’Artagnan, “believe me, I am grateful for such a proceeding, and shall, as I have said, be most happy if I can be of use in any way.”
“I believe you, I believe you,” interrupted the citizen; “and as I said, on the honour of Bonancieux, I have confidence in you.”
“Then go on with your account.”
The citizen drew a paper from his pocket, and gave it to d’Artagnan.
“A letter!” exclaimed the young man.
“Which I received this morning.”
D’Artagnan opened it, and, as the light commenced to wane, he approached the window, followed by Bonancieux.
“Do not seek for your wife,” read d’Artagnan: “she will be returned to you when she is no longer required. If you make a single attempt to discover her, you are lost!”
“Well, this is pretty positive!” continued d’Artagnan; “but, after all, it is only a threat.”
“Yes, but this threat frightens me, sir: I am not at all warlike, and I fear the Bastile.”
“Humph!” said d’Artagnan, “I do not like the Bastile any more than you do; if it was only a sword thrust, now, it would be of no consequence!”
“And yet I had depended much on your assistance.”
“Quite right!”
“Seeing you always surrounded by musketeers of haughty carriage, and perceiving that those musketeers belonged to M. de Treville, and, consequently, were the enemies of the cardinal, I thought that you and your friends, whilst gaining justice for our poor queen, would be enchanted at doing his eminence an ill turn.”
“Unquestionably!”
“And then I thought, that, owing me three months’ rent, which I never demanded—”
“Yes, yes, you have already mentioned that reason, and I consider it excellent.”
“Reckoning, moreover, that as long as you will do me the honour of remaining in my house, I should make no reference to rent—”
“Good, again!” said d’Artagnan.
“And, added to that, calculating upon offering you fifty pistoles, should you be at all distressed at this time, which I don’t say for a moment—”
“Wonderfully good! You are rich, then, my dear M. Bonancieux!”
“Say, rather, in easy circumstances, sir. I have amassed something like two or three thousand crowns a year in the linen-drapery line; and more particularly, by investing something in the last voyage of the celebrated navigator, Jean Mocquet; so that you understand, sir—Ah! but—” exclaimed the citizen.
“What?” demanded d’Artagnan.
“What do I see there?”
“Where?”
“In the street, opposite your windows; in the opening of that entry—a man wrapped in a cloak!”
“It is he!” cried d’Artagnan and the citizen in one breath; each having at the same moment recognised his man.
“Ah! This time he shall not escape me!” exclaimed d’Artagnan, rushing out, sword in hand.
On the staircase he met Athos and Porthos, who were coming to see him. They stood apart, and he passed between them like a meteor.
“Ah, where are you running to?” cried the two musketeers.
“The man of Meung!” ejaculated d’Artagnan, as he disappeared.
D’Artagnan had more than once related to his friends his adventure with the stranger, and also the apparition of the fair traveller, to whom this man appeared to confide such an important missive. Athos was of opinion that d’Artagnan had lost the letter during the quarrel, since a gentleman, such as he had described the unknown to be, must have been incapable of theft: Porthos only saw in the affair an amorous appointment, which d’Artagnan and his yellow horse had disturbed; and Aramis had said, these kind of things being mysterious, had better not be searched into. From the few words which escaped d’Artagnan, they understood, therefore, what was his object; and concluding that he would return, after he had found his man, they proceeded to his apartment.
When they entered
