“Yes, sir; I certainly committed that imprudence. But why should I have done otherwise? A name like yours was to serve me as a buckler on my way. You can fancy whether I often hid myself behind it or no!”

Flattery was at that period very much in fashion, and M. de Tréville loved incense as well as a king, or even a cardinal. He could not then refrain from a smile of evident satisfaction; but this smile soon disappeared, and returning to the adventure at Meung,

“Tell me,” continued he, “had not this gentleman a slight scar on his cheek?”

“Yes, such a one as would be made by the grazing of a ball.”

“Was he not a fine-looking man?”

“Yes.”

“Of lofty stature?”

“Yes.”

“Of pale complexion and brown hair?”

“Yes, yes, that is he! How is it, sir, that you are acquainted with this man? If ever I should meet him again, and I will find him, I swear, were it in hell—”

“He was waiting for a woman?” continued Tréville.

“He at least departed immediately after having conversed for a minute with the one for whom he was waiting.”

“You do not know what was the subject of their conversation?”

“He gave her a box, told her that box contained her instructions, and desired her not to open it before she arrived in London.”

“Was this an Englishwoman?”

“He called her Milady.”

“It is he! it must be he!” murmured Tréville. “I thought he was still at Brussels!”

“O sir, if you know who and what this man is,” cried D’Artagnan, “tell me who he is and whence he is. I will then release you from all your promises—even that of procuring my admission into the musketeers. For, before everything, I wish to avenge myself.”

“Beware, young man!” cried De Tréville. “If you see him coming on one side of the street, pass by on the other. Do not cast yourself against such a rock; he would break you like glass.”

“That thought will not prevent me,” replied D’Artagnan, “if ever I should happen to meet with him—”

“In the meantime, if you will take my advice, you will not seek him,” said Tréville, and leaving his young compatriot in the embrasure of the window, where they had talked together, he seated himself at a table, in order to write the promised letter of recommendation. While he was doing this D’Artagnan, having no better employment, amused himself with beating a march upon the window, and with looking at the musketeers, who went away, one after another, following them with his eyes till they disappeared at the bend of the street.