to beauty.  A fine and white stocking,
a silken robe, a lace kerchief, a pretty slipper on the foot, a
tasty ribbon on the head do not make an ugly woman pretty, but
they make a pretty woman beautiful, without reckoning the hands,
which gain by all this; the hands, among women particularly, to
be beautiful must be idle.

Then D'Artagnan, as the reader, from whom we have not concealed
the state of his fortune, very well knows--D'Artagnan was not a
millionaire; he hoped to become one someday, but the time which
in his own mind he fixed upon for this happy change was still far
distant.  In the meanwhile, how disheartening to see the woman
one loves long for those thousands of nothings which constitute a
woman's happiness, and be unable to give her those thousands of
nothings.  At least, when the woman is rich and the lover is not
that which he cannot offer she offers to herself; and although it
is generally with her husband's money that she procures herself
this indulgence, the gratitude for it seldom reverts to him.

Then D'Artagnan, disposed to become the most tender of lovers,
was at the same time a very devoted friend,  In the midst of his
amorous projects for the mercer's wife, he did not forget his
friends.  The pretty  Mme. Bonacieux was just the woman to walk
with in the Plain St. Denis or in the fair of St. Germain, in
company with Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, to whom D'Artagnan had
often remarked this.  Then one could enjoy charming little
dinners, where one touches on one side the hand of a friend, and
on the other the foot of a mistress.  Besides, on pressing
occasions, in extreme difficulties, D'Artagnan would become the
preserver of his friends.

And M. Bonacieux? whom D'Artagnan had pushed into the hands of
the officers, denying him aloud although he had promised in a
whisper to save him.  We are compelled to admit to our readers
that D'Artagnan thought nothing about him in any way; or that if
he did think of him, it was only to say to himself that he was
very well where he was, wherever it might be.  Love is the most
selfish of all the passions.

Let our readers reassure themselves.  IF D'Artagnan forgets his
host, or appears to forget him, under the pretense of not knowing
where he has been carried, we will not forget him, and we know
where he is.  But for the moment, let us do as did the amorous
Gascon; we will see after the worthy mercer later.

D'Artagnan, reflecting on his future amours, addressing himself
to the beautiful night, and smiling at the stars, rescinded the
Rue Cherish-Midi, or Chase-Midi, as it was then called.  As he
found himself in the quarter in which Aramis lived, he took it
into his head to pay his friend a visit in order to explain the
motives which had led him to send Planchet with a request that he
would come instantly to the mousetrap.  Now, if Aramis had been
at home when Planchet came to his abode, he had doubtless
hastened to the Rue des Fossoyeurs, and finding nobody there but
his other two companions perhaps, they would not be able to
conceive what all this meant.  This mystery required an
explanation; at least, so D'Artagnan declared to himself.

He likewise thought this was an opportunity for talking about
pretty little Mme. Bonacieux, of whom his head, if not his heart,
was already full.  We must never look for discretion in first
love.  First love is accompanied by such excessive joy that
unless the joy be allowed to overflow, it will stifle you.

Paris for two hours past had been dark, and seemed a desert.
Eleven o'clock sounded from all the clocks of the Faubourg St.
Germain.  It was delightful weather.  D'Artagnan was passing
along a lane on the spot where the Rue d'Assas is now situated,
breathing the balmy emanations which were borne upon the wind
from the Rue de Vaugirard, and which arose from the gardens
refreshed by the dews of evening and the breeze of night.  From a
distance resounded, deadened, however, by good shutters, the
songs of the tipplers, enjoying themselves in the cabarets
scattered along the plain.  Arrived at the end of the lane,
D'Artagnan turned to the left.  The house in which Aramis dwelt
was situated between the Rue Cassette and the Rue Servandoni.

D'Artagnan had just passed the Rue Cassette, and already
perceived the door of his friend's house, shaded by a mass of
sycamores and clematis which formed a vast arch opposite the
front of it, when he perceived something like a shadow issuing
from the Rue Servandoni.  This something was enveloped in a
cloak, and D'Artagnan at first believed it was a man; but by the
smallness of the form, the hesitation of the walk, and the
indecision of the step, he soon discovered that it was a woman.
Further, this woman, as if not certain of the house she was
seeking, lifted up her eyes to look around her, stopped, went
backward, and then returned again.  D'Artagnan was perplexed.

"Shall I go and offer her my services?" thought he.  "By her step
she must be young; perhaps she is pretty.  Oh, yes!  But a woman
who wanders in the streets at this hour only ventures out to meet
her lover.  If I should disturb a rendezvous, that would not be
the best means of commencing an acquaintance."

Meantime the young woman continued to advance, counting the
houses and windows.  This was neither long nor difficult.  There
were but three hotels in this part of the street; and only two
windows looking toward the road, one of which was in a pavilion
parallel to that which Aramis occupied, the other belonging to
Aramis himself.

"PARIDIEU!" said D'Artagnan to himself, to whose mind the niece
of the theologian reverted, "PARDIEU, it would be droll if this
belated dove should be in search of our friend's house.  But on
my soul, it looks so.  Ah, my dear Aramis, this time I shall find
you out."  And D'Artagnan, making himself as small as he could,
concealed himself in the darkest side of the street near a stone
bench placed at the back of a niche.

The young woman continued to advance; and in addition to the
lightness of her step, which had betrayed her, she emitted a
little cough which denoted a sweet voice.  D'Artagnan believed
this cough to be a signal.

Nevertheless, whether the cough had been answered by a similar
signal which had fixed the irresolution of the nocturnal seeker,
or whether without this aid she saw that she had arrived at the
end of her journey, she resolutely drew near to Aramis's shutter,
and tapped, at three equal intervals, with her bent finger.

"This is all very fine, dear Aramis," murmured D'Artagnan.

"Ah, Monsieur Hypocrite, I understand how you study theology."

The three blows were scarcely struck, when the inside blind was
opened and a light appeared through the panes of the outside
shutter.

"Ah, ah!" said the listener, "not through doors, but through
windows!  Ah, this visit was expected.  We shall see the windows
open, and the lady enter by escalade.  Very pretty!"

But to the great astonishment of D'Artagnan, the shutter remained
closed.  Still more, the light which had shone for an instant
disappeared, and all was again in obscurity.

D'Artagnan thought this could not last long, and continued to
look with all his eyes and listen with all his ears.

He was right; at the end of some seconds two sharp taps were
heard inside.  The young woman in the street replied by a single
tap, and the shutter was opened a little way.

It may be judged whether D'Artagnan looked or listened with
avidity.  Unfortunately the light had been removed into another
chamber; but the eyes of the young man were accustomed to the
night.  Besides, the eyes of the Gascons have, as it is asserted,
like those of cats, the faculty of seeing in the dark.

D'Artagnan then saw that the young woman took from her pocket a
white object, which she unfolded quickly, and which took the form
of a handkerchief.  She made her interlocutor observe the corner
of this unfolded object.

This immediately recalled to D'Artagnan's mind the handkerchief
which he had found at the feet of Mme. Bonacieux, which had
reminded him of that which he had dragged from under the feet of
Aramis.

"What the devil could that handkerchief signify?"

Placed where he was, D'Artagnan could not perceive the face of
Aramis.  We say Aramis, because the young man entertained no
doubt that it was his friend who held this dialogue from the
interior with the lady of the exterior.  Curiosity prevailed over
prudence; and profiting by the preoccupation into which the sight
of the handkerchief appeared to have plunged the two personages
now on the scene, he stole from his hiding place, and quick as
lightning, but stepping with utmost caution, he ran and placed
himself close to the angle of the wall, from which his eye could
pierce the interior of Aramis's room.

Upon gaining this advantage D'Artagnan was near uttering a cry of
surprise; it was not Aramis who was conversing with the nocturnal
visitor, it was a woman!  D'Artagnan, however, could only see
enough to recognize the form of her vestments, not enough to
distinguish her features.

At the same instant the woman inside drew a second handkerchief
from her pocket, and exchanged it for that which had just been
shown to her.  Then some words were spoken by the two women.  At
length the shutter closed.  The woman who was outside the window
turned round, and passed within four steps of D'Artagnan, pulling
down the hood of her mantle; but the precaution was too late,
D'Artagnan had already recognized Mme. Bonacieux.

Mme. Bonacieux!  The suspicion that it was she had crossed the
mind of D'Artagnan when she drew the handkerchief from her
pocket; but what probability was there that Mme. Bonacieux, who
had sent for M. Laporte in order to be reconducted to the Louvre,
should be running about the streets of Paris at half past eleven
at night, at the risk of being abducted a second time?

This must be, then, an affair of importance; and what is the most
important affair to a woman of twenty-five!  Love.

But was it on her own account, or on account of another, that she
exposed herself to such hazards?  This was a question the young
man asked himself, whom the demon of jealousy already gnawed,
being in heart neither more nor less than an accepted lover.

There was a very simple means of satisfying himself whither Mme.
Bonacieux was going; that was to follow her.  This method was so
simple that D'Artagnan employed it quite naturally and
instinctively.

But at the sight of the young man, who detached himself from the
wall like a statue walking from its niche, and at the noise of
the steps which she heard resound behind her, Mme. Bonacieux
uttered a little cry and fled.

D'Artagnan ran after her.  It was not difficult for him to
overtake a woman embarrassed with her cloak.  He came up with her
before she had traversed a third of the street.  The unfortunate
woman was exhausted, not by fatigue, but by terror, and when
D'Artagnan placed his hand upon her shoulder, she sank upon one
knee, crying in a choking voice, "Kill me, if you please, you
shall know nothing!"

D'Artagnan raised her by passing his arm round her waist; but as
he felt by her weight she was on the point of fainting, he made
haste to reassure her by protestations of devotedness.  These
protestations were nothing for Mme. Bonacieux, for such
protestations may be made with the worst intentions in the world;
but the voice was all Mme. Bonacieux thought she recognized the
sound of that voice; she reopened her eyes, cast a quick glance
upon the man who had terrified her so, and at once perceiving it
was D'Artagnan, she uttered a cry of joy, "Oh, it is you, it is
you!  Thank God, thank God!"

"Yes, it is I," said D'Artagnan, "it is I, whom God has sent to
watch over you."

"Was it with that intention you followed me?" asked the young
woman, with a coquettish smile, whose somewhat bantering
character resumed its influence, and with whom all fear had
disappeared from the moment in which she recognized a friend in
one she had taken for an enemy.

"No," said D'Artagnan; "no, I confess it.  It was chance that
threw me in your way; I saw a woman knocking at the window of one
of my friends."

"One of your friends?" interrupted Mme. Bonacieux.

"Without doubt; Aramis is one of my best friends."

"Aramis!  Who is he?"

"Come, come, you won't tell me you don't know Aramis?"

"This is the first time I ever heard his name pronounced."

"It is the first time I ever heard his name pronounced."

"It is the first time, then, that you ever went to that house?"

"Undoubtedly."

"And you did not know that it was inhabited by a young man?"

"No."

"By a Musketeer?"

"No, indeed!"

"It was not he, then, you came to seek?"

"Not the least in the world.  Besides, you must have seen that
the person to whom I spoke was a woman."

"That is true; but this woman is a friend of Aramis--"

"I know nothing of that."

"--since she lodges with him."

"That does not concern me."

"But who is she?"

"Oh, that is not my secret."

"My dear Madame Bonacieux, you are charming; but at the same time
you are one of the most mysterious women."

"Do I lose by that?"

"No; you are, on the contrary, adorable."

"Give me your arm, then."

"Most willingly.  And now?"

"Now escort me."

"Where?"

"Where I am going."

"But where are you going?"

"You will see, because you will leave me at the door."

"Shall I wait for you?"

"That will be useless."

"You will return alone, then?"

"Perhaps yes, perhaps no."

"But will the person who shall accompany you afterward be a man
or a woman?"

"I don't know yet."

"But I will know it!"

"How so?"

"I will wait until you come out."

"In that case, adieu."

"Why so?"

"I do not want you."

"But you have claimed--"

"The aid of a gentleman, not the watchfulness of a spy."

"The word is rather hard."

"How are they called who follow others in spite of them?"

"They are indiscreet."

"The word is too mild."

"well, madame, I perceive I must do as you wish."

"Why did you deprive yourself of the merit of doing so at once?"

"Is there no merit in repentance?"

"And do you really repent?"

"I know nothing about it myself.  But what I know is that I
promise to do all you wish if you allow me to accompany you where
you are going."

"And you will leave me then?"

"Yes."

"Without waiting for my coming out again?"

"Yes."

"Word of honor?"

"By the faith of a gentleman.  Take my arm, and let us go."

D'Artagnan offered his arm to Mme. Bonacieux, who willingly took
it, half laughing, half trembling, and both gained the top of Rue
de la Harpe.  Arriving there, the young woman seemed to hesitate,
as she had before done in the Rue Vaugirard.  She seemed,
however, by certain signs, to recognize a door, and approaching
that door, "And now, monsieur," said she, "it is here I have
business; a thousand thanks for your honorable company, which has
saved me from all the dangers to which, alone I was exposed.  But
the moment is come to keep your word; I have reached my
destination."

"And you will have nothing to fear on your return?"

"I shall have nothing to fear but robbers."

"And that is nothing?"

"What could they take from me?  I have not a penny about me."

"You forget that beautiful handkerchief with the coat of arms."

"Which?"

"That which I found at your feet, and replaced in your pocket."

"Hold your tongue, imprudent man!  Do you wish to destroy me?"

"You see very plainly that there is still danger for you, since a
single word makes you tremble; and you confess that if that word
were heard you would be ruined.  Come, come, madame!" cried
D'Artagnan, seizing her hands, and surveying her with an ardent
glance, "come, be more generous.  Confide in me.  Have you not
read in my eyes that there is nothing but devotion and sympathy
in my heart?"

"Yes," replied Mme. Bonacieux; "therefore, ask my own secrets,
and I will reveal them to you; but those of others--that is quite
another thing."

"Very well," said D'Artagnan, "I shall discover them; as these
secrets may have an influence over your life, these secrets must
become mine."

"Beware of what you do!" cried the young woman, in a manner so
serious as to make D'Artagnan start in spite of himself.  "Oh,
meddle in nothing which concerns me.  Do not seek to assist me in
that which I am accomplishing.  This I ask of you in the name of
the interest with which I inspire you, in the name of the service
you have rendered me and which I never shall forget while I have
life.  Rather, place faith in what I tell you.  Have no more
concern about me; I exist no longer for you, any more than if you
had never seen me."

"Must Aramis do as much as I, madame?" said D'Artagnan, deeply
piqued.

"This is the second or third time, monsieur, that you have
repeated that name, and yet I have told you that I do not know
him."

"You do not know the man at whose shutter you have just knocked?
Indeed, madame, you believe me too credulous!"

"Confess that it is for the sake of making me talk that you
invent this story and create this personage."

"I invent nothing, madame; I create nothing.  I only speak that
exact truth."

"And you say that one of your friends lives in that house?"

"I say so, and I repeat it for the third time; that house is one
inhabited by my friend, and that friend is Aramis."

"All this will be cleared up at a later period," murmured the
young woman; "no, monsieur, be silent."

"If you could see my heart," said D'Artagnan, "you would there
read so much curiosity that you would pity me and so much love
that you would instantly satisfy my curiosity.  We have nothing
to fear from those who love us."

"You speak very suddenly of love, monsieur," said the young
woman, shaking her head.

"That is because love has come suddenly upon me, and for the
first time; and because I am only twenty."

The young woman looked at him furtively.

"Listen; I am already upon the scent," resumed D'Artagnan.
"About three months ago I was near having a duel with Aramis
concerning a handkerchief resembling the one you showed to the
woman in his house--for a handkerchief marked in the same manner,
I am sure."

"Monsieur," said the young woman, "you weary me very much, I
assure you, with your questions."

"But you, madame, prudent as you are, think, if you were to be
arrested with that handkerchief, and that handkerchief were to be
seized, would you not be compromised?"

"In what way?  The initials are only mine--C. B., Constance
Bonacieux."

"Or Camille de Bois-Tracy."

"Silence, monsieur!  Once again, silence!  Ah, since the dangers
I incur on my own account cannot stop you, think of those you may
yourself run!"

"Me?"

"Yes; there is peril of imprisonment, risk of life in knowing
me."

"Then I will not leave you."

"Monsieur!" said the young woman, supplicating him and clasping
her hands together, "monsieur, in the name of heaven, by the
honor of a soldier, by the courtesy of a gentleman, depart!
There, there midnight sounds!  That is the hour when I am
expected."

"Madame," said the young man, bowing; "I can refuse nothing asked
of me thus.  Be content; I will depart."

"But you will not follow me; you will not watch me?"

"I will return home instantly."

"Ah, I was quite sure you were a good and brave young man," said
Mme. Bonacieux, holding out her hand to him, and placing the
other upon the knocker of a little door almost hidden in the
wall.

D'Artagnan seized the hand held out to him, and kissed it
ardently.

"Ah!  I wish I had never seen you!" cried D'Artagnan, with that
ingenuous roughness which women often prefer to the affectations
of politeness, because it betrays the depths of the thought and
proves that feeling prevails over reason.

"Well!" resumed Mme. Bonacieux, in a voice almost caressing, and
pressing the hand of D'Artagnan, who had not relinquished hers,
"well:  I will not say as much as you do; what is lost for today
may not be lost forever.  Who knows, when I shall be at liberty,
that I may not satisfy your curiosity?"

"And will you make the same promise to my love?" cried
D'Artagnan, beside himself with joy.

"Oh, as to that, I do not engage myself.  That depends upon the
sentiments with which you may inspire me."

"Then today, madame--"

"Oh, today, I am no further than gratitude."

"Ah!  You are too charming," said D'Artagnan, sorrowfully; "and
you abuse my love."

"No, I use your generosity, that's all.  But be of good cheer;
with certain people, everything comes round."

"Oh, you render me the happiest of men!  Do not forget this
evening--do not forget that promise."

"Be satisfied.  In the proper time and place I will remember
everything.  Now then, go, go, in the name of heaven!  I was
expected at sharp midnight, and I am late."

"By five minutes."

"Yes; but in certain circumstances five minutes are five ages."

"When one loves."

"Well!  And who told you I had no affair with a lover?"

"It is a man, then, who expects you?" cried D'Artagnan.  "A man!"

"The discussion is going to begin again!" said Mme. Bonacieux,
with a half-smile which was not exempt from a tinge of
impatience.

"No, no; I go, I depart!  I believe in you, and I would have all
the merit of my devotion, even if that devotion were stupidity.
Adieu, madame, adieu!"

And as if he only felt strength to detach himself by a violent
effort from the hand he held, he sprang away, running, while Mme.
Bonacieux knocked, as at the shutter, three light and regular
taps.  When he had gained the angle of the street, he turned.
The door had been opened, and shut again; the mercer's pretty
wife had disappeared.

D'Artagnan pursued his way.  He had given his word not to watch
Mme. Bonacieux, and if his life had depended upon the spot to
which she was going or upon the person who should accompany her,
D'Artagnan would have returned home, since he had so promised.
Five minutes later he was in the Rue des Fossoyeurs.

"Poor Athos!" said he; "he will never guess what all this means.
He will have fallen asleep waiting for me, or else he will have
returned home, where he will have learned that a woman had been
there.  A woman with Athos!  After all," continued D'Artagnan,
"there was certainly one with Aramis.  All this is very strange;
and I am curious to know how it will end."

"Badly, monsieur, badly!" replied a voice which the young man
recognized as that of Planchet; for, soliloquizing aloud, as very
preoccupied people do, he had entered the alley, at the end of
which were the stairs which led to his chamber.

"How badly?  What do you mean by that, you idiot?" asked
D'Artagnan.  "What has happened?"

"All sorts of misfortunes."

"What?"

"In the first place, Monsieur Athos is arrested."

"Arrested!  Athos arrested!  What for?"

"He was found in your lodging; they took him for you."

"And by whom was he arrested?"

"By Guards brought by the men in black whom you put to flight."

"Why did he not tell them his name?  Why did he not tell them he
knew nothing about this affair?"

"He took care not to do so, monsieur; on the contrary, he came up
to me and said, 'It is your master that needs his liberty at this
moment and not I, since he knows everything and I know nothing.
They will believe he is arrested, and that will give him time; in
three days I will tell them who I am, and they cannot fail to let
me go.'"

"Bravo, Athos!  Noble heart!" murmured D'Artagnan.  "I know him
well there!  And what did the officers do?"

"Four conveyed him away, I don't know where--to the Bastille or
Fort l'Eveque.  Two remained with the men in black, who rummaged
every place and took all the papers.  The last two mounted guard
at the door during this examination; then, when all was over,
they went away, leaving the house empty and exposed."

"And Porthos and Aramis?"

"I could not find them; they did not come."

"But they may come any moment, for you left word that I awaited
them?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"Well, don't budge, then; if they come, tell them what has
happened.  Let them wait for me at the Pomme-de-Pin.  Here it
would be dangerous; the house may be watched.  I will run to
Monsieur de Treville to tell them all this, and will meet them
there."

"Very well, monsieur," said Planchet.

"But you will remain; you are not afraid?" said D'Artagnan,
coming back to recommend courage to his lackey.

"Be easy, monsieur," said Planchet; "you do not know me yet.  I
am brave when I set about it.  It is all in beginning.  Besides,
I am a Picard."

"Then it is understood," said D'Artagnan; "you would rather be
killed than desert your post?"

"Yes, monsieur; and there is nothing I would not do to prove to
Monsieur that I am attached to him."

"Good!" said D'Artagnan to himself.  "It appears that the method
I have adopted with this boy is decidedly the best.  I shall use
it again upon occasion."

And with all the swiftness of his legs, already a little fatigued
however, with the perambulations of the day, D'Artagnan directed
his course toward M. de Treville's.

M. de Treville was not at his hotel.  His company was on guard at
the Louvre; he was at the Louvre with his company.

It was necessary to reach M. de Treville; it was important that
he should be informed of what was passing.  D'Artagnan resolved
to try and enter the Louvre.  His costume of Guardsman in the
company of M. Dessessart ought to be his passport.

He therefore went down the Rue des Petits Augustins, and came up
to the quay, in order to take the New Bridge.  He had at first an
idea of crossing by the ferry; but on gaining the riverside, he
had mechanically put his hand into his pocket, and perceived that
he had not wherewithal to pay his passage.

As he gained the top of the Rue Guenegaud, he saw two persons
coming out of the Rue Dauphine whose appearance very much struck
him.  Of the two persons who composed this group, one was a man
and the other a woman.  The woman had the outline of Mme.
Bonacieux; the man resembled Aramis so much as to be mistaken for
him.

Besides, the woman wore that black mantle which D'Artagnan could
still see outlined on the shutter of the Rue de Vaugirard and on
the door of the Rue de la Harpe; still further, the man wore the
uniform of a Musketeer.

The woman's hood was pulled down, and the man geld a handkerchief
to his face.  Both, as this double precaution indicated, had an
interest in not being recognized.

They took the bridge.  That was D'Artagnan's road, as he was
going to the Louvre.  D'Artagnan followed them.

He had not gone twenty steps before he became convinced that the
woman was really Mme. Bonacieux and that the man was Aramis.

He felt at that instant all the suspicions of jealousy agitating
his heart.  He felt himself doubly betrayed, by his friend and by
her whom he already loved like a mistress.  Mme. Bonacieux had
declared to him, by all the gods, that she did not know Aramis;
and a quarter of an hour after having made this assertion, he
found her hanging on the arm of Aramis.

D'Artagnan did not reflect that he had only known the mercer's
pretty wife for three hours; that she owed him nothing but a
little gratitude for having delivered her from the men in black,
who wished to carry her off, and that she had promised him
nothing.  He considered himself an outraged, betrayed, and
ridiculed lover.  Blood and anger mounted to his face; he was
resolved to unravel the mystery.

The young man and young woman perceived they were watched, and
redoubled their speed.  D'Artagnan determined upon his course.
He passed them, then returned so as to meet them exactly before
the Samaritaine. Which was illuminated by a lamp which threw its
light over all that part of the bridge.

D'Artagnan stopped before them, and they stopped before him.

"What do you want, monsieur?" demanded the Musketeer, recoiling a
step, and with a foreign accent, which proved to D'Artagnan that
he was deceived in one of his conjectures.

"It is not Aramis!" cried he.

"No, monsieur, it is not Aramis; and by your exclamation I
perceive you have mistaken me for another, and pardon you."

"You pardon me?" cried D'Artagnan.

"Yes," replied the stranger.  "Allow me, then, to pass on, since
it is not with me you have anything to do."

"You are right, monsieur, it is not with you that I have anything
to do; it is with Madame."

"With Madame!  You do not know her," replied the stranger.

"You are deceived, monsieur; I know her very well."

"Ah," said Mme. Bonacieux; in a tone of reproach, "ah, monsieur,
I had your promise as a soldier and your word as a gentleman.  I
hoped to be able to rely upon that."

"And I, madame!" said D'Artagnan, embarrassed; "you promised me--
"

"Take my arm, madame," said the stranger, "and let us continue
our way."

D'Artagnan, however, stupefied, cast down, annihilated by all
that happened, stood, with crossed arms, before the Musketeer and
Mme. Bonacieux.

The Musketeer advanced two steps, and pushed D'Artagnan aside
with his hand.  D'Artagnan made a spring backward and drew his
sword.  At the same time, and with the rapidity of lightning, the
stranger drew his.

"In the name of heaven, my Lord!" cried Mme. Bonacieux, throwing
herself between the combatants and seizing the swords with her
hands.

"My Lord!" cried D'Artagnan, enlightened by a sudden idea, "my
Lord!  Pardon me, monsieur, but you are not--"

"My Lord the Duke of Buckingham," said Mme. Bonacieux, in an
undertone; "and now you may ruin us all."

"My Lord, Madame, I ask a hundred pardons!  But I love her, my
Lord, and was jealous.  You know what it is to love, my Lord.
Pardon me, and then tell me how I can risk my life to serve your
Grace?"

"You are a brave young man," said Buckingham, holding out his
hand to D'Artagnan, who pressed it respectfully.  "You offer me
your services; with the same frankness I accept them.  Follow us
at a distance of twenty paces, as far as the Louvre, and if
anyone watches us, slay him!"

D'Artagnan placed his naked sword under his arm, allowed the duke
and Mme. Bonacieux to take twenty steps ahead, and then followed
them, ready to execute the instructions of the noble and elegant
minister of Charles I.

Fortunately, he had no opportunity to give the duke this proof of
his devotion, and the young woman and the handsome Musketeer
entered the Louvre by the wicket of the Echelle without any
interference.

As for D'Artagnan, he immediately repaired to the cabaret of the
Pomme-de-Pin, where he found Porthos and Aramis awaiting him.
Without giving them any explanation of the alarm and
inconvenience he had caused them, he told them that he had
terminated the affair alone in which he had for a moment believed
he should need their assistance.

Meanwhile, carried away as we are by our narrative, we must leave
our three friends to themselves, and follow the Duke of
Buckingham and his guide through the labyrinths of the Louvre.



12  GEORGE VILLIERS, DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM

Mme. Bonacieux and the duke entered the Louvre without
difficulty.  Mme. Bonacieux was known to belong to the queen; the
duke wore the uniform of the Musketeers of M. de Treville, who,
as we have said, were that evening on guard.  Besides, Germain
was in the interests of the queen; and if anything should happen,
Mme. Bonacieux would be accused of having introduced her lover
into the Louvre, that was all.  She took the risk upon herself.
Her reputation would be lost, it is true; but of what value in
the world was the reputation of the little wife of a mercer?

Once within the interior of the court, the duke and the young
woman followed the wall for the space of about twenty-five steps.
This space passed, Mme. Bonacieux pushed a little servants' door,
open by day but generally closed at night.  The door yielded.
Both entered, and found themselves in darkness; but Mme.
Bonacieux was acquainted with all the turnings and windings of
this part of the Louvre, appropriated for the people of the
household.  She closed the door after her, took the duke by the
hand, and after a few experimental steps, grasped a balustrade,
put her foot upon the bottom step, and began to ascend the
staircase.  The duke counted two stories.  She then turned to the
right, followed the course of a long corridor, descended a
flight, went a few steps farther, introduced a key into a lock,
opened a door, and pushed the duke into an apartment lighted only
by a lamp, saying, "Remain here, my Lord Duke; someone will
come."  She then went out by the same door, which she locked, so
that the duke found himself literally a prisoner.

Nevertheless, isolated as he was, we must say that the Duke of
Buckingham did not experience an instant of fear.  One of the
salient points of his character was the search for adventures and
a love of romance.  Brave, rash, and enterprising, this was not
the first time he had risked his life in such attempts.  He had
learned that the pretended message from Anne of Austria, upon the
faith of which he had come to Paris, was a snare; but instead of
regaining England, he had, abusing the position in which he had
been placed, declared to the queen that he would not depart
without seeing her.  The queen had at first positively refused;
but at length became afraid that the duke, if exasperated, would
commit some folly.  She had already decided upon seeing him and
urging his immediate departure, when, on the very evening of
coming to this decision, Mme. Bonacieux, who was charged with
going to fetch the duke and conducting him to the Louvre, was
abducted.  For two days no one knew what had become of her, and
everything remained in suspense; but once free, and placed in
communication with Laporte, matters resumed their course, and she
accomplished the perilous enterprise which, but for her arrest,
would have been executed three days earlier.

Buckingham, left alone, walked toward a mirror.  His Musketeer's
uniform became him marvelously.

At thirty-five, which was then his age, he passed, with just
title, for the handsomest gentleman and the most elegant cavalier
of France or England.

The favorite of two kings, immensely rich, all-powerful in a
kingdom which he disordered at his fancy and calmed again at his
caprice, George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, had lived one of
those fabulous existences which survive, in the course of
centuries, to astonish posterity.

Sure of himself, convinced of his own power, certain that the
laws which rule other men could not reach him, he went straight
to the object he aimed at, even were this object were so elevated
and so dazzling that it would have been madness for any other
even to have contemplated it.  It was thus he had succeeded in
approaching several times the beautiful and proud Anne of
Austria, and in making himself loved by dazzling her.

George Villiers placed himself before the glass, as we have said,
restored the undulations to his beautiful hair, which the weight
of his hat had disordered, twisted his mustache, and, his heart
swelling with joy, happy and proud at being near the moment he
had so long sighed for, he smiled upon himself with pride and
hope.

At this moment a door concealed in the tapestry opened, and a
woman appeared.  Buckingham saw this apparition in the glass; he
uttered a cry.  It was the queen!

Anne of Austria was then twenty-six or twenty-seven years of age;
that is to say, she was in the full splendor of her beauty.

Her carriage was that of a queen or a goddess; her eyes, which
cast the brilliancy of emeralds, were perfectly beautiful, and
yet were at the same time full of sweetness and majesty.

Her mouth was small and rosy; and although her underlip, like
that of all princes of the House of Austria, protruded slightly
beyond the other, it was eminently lovely in its smile, but as
profoundly disdainful in its contempt.

Her skin was admired for its velvety softness; her hands and arms
were of surpassing beauty, all the poets of the time singing them
as incomparable.

Lastly, her hair, which, from being light in her youth, had
become chestnut, and which she wore curled very plainly, and with
much powder, admirably set off her face, in which the most rigid
critic could only have desired a little less rouge, and the most
fastidious sculptor a little more fineness in the nose.

Buckingham remained for a moment dazzled.  Never had Anna of
Austria appeared to him so beautiful, amid balls, fetes, or
carousals, as she appeared to him at this moment, dressed in a
simple robe of white satin, and accompanied by Donna Estafania--
the only one of her Spanish women who had not been driven from
her by the jealousy of the king or by the persecutions of
Richelieu.

Anne of Austria took two steps forward.  Buckingham threw himself
at her feet, and before the queen could prevent him, kissed the
hem of her robe.

"Duke, you already know that it is not I who caused you to be
written to."

"Yes, yes, madame!  Yes, your Majesty!" cried the duke. "I know
that I must have been mad, senseless, to believe that snow would
become animated or marble warm; but what then!  They who love
believe easily in love.  Besides, I have lost nothing by this
journey because I see you."

"Yes," replied Anne, "but you know why and how I see you;
because, insensible to all my sufferings, you persist in
remaining in a city where, by remaining, you run the risk of your
life, and make me run the risk of my honor.  I see you to tell
you that everything separates us--the depths of the sea, the
enmity of kingdoms, the sanctity of vows.  It is sacrilege to
struggle against so many things, my Lord.  In short, I see you to
tell you that we must never see each other again."

"Speak on, madame, speak on, Queen," said Buckingham; "the
sweetness of your voice covers the harshness of your words.  You
talk of sacrilege!  Why, the sacrilege is the separation of two
hearts formed by God for each other."

"My Lord," cried the queen, "you forget that I have never said
that I love you."

"But you have never told me that you did not love me; and truly,
to speak such words to me would be, on the part of your Majesty,
too great an ingratitude.  For tell me, where can you find a love
like mine--a love which neither time, nor absence, not despair
can extinguish, a love which contents itself with a lost ribbon,
a stray look, or a chance word?  It is now three years, madame,
since I saw you for the first time, and during those three years
I have loved you thus.  Shall I tell you each ornament of your
toilet?  Mark!  I see you now.  You were seated upon cushions in
the Spanish fashion; you wore a robe of green satin embroidered
with gold and silver, hanging sleeves knotted upon your beautiful
arms--those lovely arms--with large diamonds.  You wore a close
ruff, a small cap upon your head of the same color as your robe,
and in that cap a heron's feather.  Hold!  Hold!  I shut my eyes,
and I can see you as you then were; I open them again, and I see
what you are now--a hundred time more beautiful!"

"What folly," murmured Anne of Austria, who had not the courage
to find fault with the duke for having so well preserved her
portrait in his heart, "what folly to feed a useless passion with
such remembrances!"

"And upon what then must I live?  I have nothing but memory.  It
is my happiness, my treasure, my hope.  Every time I see you is a
fresh diamond  which I enclose in the casket of my heart.  This
is the fourth which you have let fall and I have picked up; for
in three years, madame, I have only seen you four times--the
first, which I have described to you; the second, at the mansion
of Madame de Chevreuse; the third, in the gardens of Amiens."

"Duke," said the queen, blushing, "never speak of that evening."

"Oh, let us speak of it; on the contrary, let us speak of it!
That is the most happy and brilliant evening of my life!  You
remember what a beautiful night it was?  How soft and perfumed
was the air; how lovely the blue heavens and star-enameled sky!
Ah, then, madame, I was able for one instant to be alone with
you.  Then you were about to tell me all--the isolation of your
life, the griefs of your heart.  You leaned upon my arm--upon
this, madame!  I felt, in bending my head toward you, your
beautiful hair touch my cheek; and every time that it touched me
I trembled from head to foot.  Oh, Queen!  Queen!  You do not
know what felicity from heaven, what joys from paradise, are
comprised in a moment like that.  Take my wealth, my fortune, my
glory, all the days I have to live, for such an instant, for a
night like that.  For that night, madame, that night you loved
me, I will swear it."

"My Lord, yes; it is possible that the influence of the place,
the charm of the beautiful evening, the fascination of your
look--the thousand circumstances, in short, which sometimes unite
to destroy a woman--were grouped around me on that fatal evening;
but, my Lord, you saw the queen come to the aid of the woman who
faltered.  At the first word you dared to utter, at the first
freedom to which I had to reply, I called for help."

"Yes, yes, that is true.  And any other love but mine would have
sunk beneath this ordeal; but my love came out from it more
ardent and more eternal.  You believed that you would fly from me
by returning to Paris; you believed that I would not dare to quit
the treasure over which my master had charged me to watch.  What
to me were all the treasures in the world, or all the kings of
the earth!  Eight days after, I was back again, madame.  That
time you had nothing to say to me; I had risked my life and favor
to see you but for a second.  I did not even touch your hand, and
you pardoned me on seeing me so submissive and so repentant."

"Yes, but calumny seized upon all those follies in which I took
no part, as you well know, my Lord.  The king, excited by the
cardinal, made a terrible clamor.  Madame de Vernet was driven
from me, Putange was exiled, Madame de Chevreuse fell into
disgrace, and when you wished to come back as ambassador to
France, the king himself--remember, my lord--the king himself
opposed to it."

"Yes, and France is about to pay for her king's refusal with a
war.  I am not allowed to see you, madame, but you shall every
day hear of me.  What object, think you, have this expedition to
Re and this league with the Protestants of La Rochelle which I am
projecting?  The pleasure of seeing you.  I have no hope of
penetrating, sword in hand, to Paris, I know that well.  But this
war may bring round a peace; this peace will require a
negotiator; that negotiator will be me.  They will not dare to
refuse me then; and I will return to Paris, and will see you
again, and will be happy for an instant.  Thousands of men, it is
true, will have to pay for my happiness with their lives; but
what is that to me, provided I see you again!  All this is
perhaps folly--perhaps insanity; but tell me what woman has a
lover more truly in love; what queen a servant more ardent?"

"My Lord, my Lord, you invoke in your defense things which accuse
you more strongly.  All these proofs of love which you would give
me are almost crimes."

"Because you do not love me, madame!  If you loved me, you would
view all this otherwise.  If you loved me, oh, if you loved me,
that would be too great happiness, and I should run mad.  Ah,
Madame de Chevreuse was less cruel than you.  Holland loved her,
and she responded to his love."

"Madame de Chevreuse was not queen," murmured Anne of Austria,
overcome, in spite of herself, by the expression of so profound a
passion.

"You would love me, then, if you were not queen!  Madame, say
that you would love me then!  I can believe that it is the
dignity of your rank alone which makes you cruel to me; I can
believe that you had been Madame de Chevreuse, poor Buckingham
might have hoped.  Thanks for those sweet words!  Oh, my
beautiful sovereign, a hundred times, thanks!"

"Oh, my Lord!  You have ill understood, wrongly interpreted; I
did not mean to say--"

"Silence, silence!" cried the duke.  "If I am happy in an error,
do not have the cruelty to lift me from it.  You have told me
yourself, madame, that I have been drawn into a snare; I,
perhaps, may leave my life in it--for, although it may be
strange, I have for some time had a presentiment that I should
shortly die."  And the duke smiled, with a smile at once sad and
charming.

"Oh, my God!" cried Anne of Austria, with an accent of terror
which proved how much greater an interest she took in the duke
than she ventured to tell.

"I do not tell you this, madame, to terrify you; no, it is even
ridiculous for me to name it to you, and, believe me, I take no
heed of such dreams.  But the words you have just spoken, the
hope you have almost given me, will have richly paid all--were it
my life."

"Oh, but I," said Anne, "I also, duke, have had presentiments; I
also have had dreams.  I dreamed that I saw you lying bleeding,
wounded."

"In the left side, was it not, and with a knife?" interrupted
Buckingham.

"Yes, it was so, my Lord, it was so--in the left side, and with a
knife.  Who can possibly have told you I had had that dream?  I
have imparted it to no one but my God, and that in my prayers."

"I ask for no more.  You love me, madame; it is enough."

"I love you, I?"

"Yes, yes.  Would God send the same dreams to you as to me if you
did not love me?  Should we have the same presentiments if our
existences did not touch at the heart?  You love me, my beautiful
queen, and you will weep for me?"

"Oh, my God, my God!" cried Anne of Austria, "this is more than I
can bear.  In the name of heaven, Duke, leave me, go!  I do not
know whether I love you or love you not; but what I know is that
I will not be perjured.  Take pity on me, then, and go!  Oh, if
you are stuck in France, if you die in France, if I could imagine
that your love for me was the cause of your death, I could not
console myself; I should run mad.  Depart then, depart, I implore
you!"

"Oh, how beautiful you are thus!  Oh, how I love you!" said
Buckingham.

"Go, go, I implore you, and return hereafter!  Come back as
ambassador, come back as minister, come back surrounded with
guards who will defend you, with servants who will watch over
you, and then I shall no longer fear for your days, and I shall
be happy in seeing you."

"Oh, is this true what you say?"

"Yes."

"Oh, then, some pledge of your indulgence, some object which came
from you, and may remind me that I have not been dreaming;
something you have worn, and that I may wear in my turn--a ring,
a necklace, a chain."

"Will you depart--will you depart, if I give you that you
demand?"

"Yes."

"This very instant?"

"Yes."

"You will leave France, you will return to England?"

"I will, I swear to you."

"Wait, then, wait."

Anne of Austria re-entered her apartment, and came out again
almost immediately, holding a rosewood casket in her hand, with
her cipher encrusted with gold.

"Her, my Lord, here," said she, "keep this in memory of me."

Buckingham took the casket, and fell a second time on his knees.

"You have promised me to go," said the queen.

"And I keep my word.  Your hand, madame, your hand, and I
depart!"

Anne of Austria stretched forth her hand, closing her eyes, and
leaning with the other upon Estafania, for she felt that her
strength was about to fail her.

Buckingham pressed his lips passionately to that beautiful hand,
and then rising, said, "Within six months, if I am not dead, I
shall have seen you again, madame--even if I have to overturn the
world."  And faithful to the promise he had made, he rushed out
of the apartment.

In the corridor he met Mme. Bonacieux, who waited for him, and
who, with the same precautions and the same good luck, conducted
him out of the Louvre.



13  MONSIEUR BONACIEUX

There was in all this, as may have been observed, one personage
concerned, 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 entangled themselves so nicely together at this
gallant and chivalric period.

Fortunately, the reader may remember, or may not remember--
fortunately we have promised not to lose sight of him.

The officers who arrested him conducted him straight to the
Bastille, where he passed trembling before a party 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 officers perceived that they had not to deal with
a gentleman, and they treated him like a very peasant.

At the end of half an hour or thereabouts, a clerk came to put an
end to his tortures, but not to his anxiety, by giving the order
to conduct M. Bonacieux to the Chamber of Examination.
Ordinarily, prisoners were interrogated in their cells; but they
did not do so with 