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

He must get at M. de Tréville; it was important that he should be informed of what was going on. D’Artagnan resolved to endeavour to get into the Louvre. His costume of a guard in the company of M. des Essarts would, he thought, be a passport for him.

As he was arriving at the end of the Rue Guénégaud he saw, coming out of the Rue Dauphine, two persons whose appearance struck his attention. One was a man, and the other a woman.

The woman had Madame Bonacieux’s figure, and the man resembled Aramis so much as to be mistaken for him.

Besides, the woman had on that black cloak, which D’Artagnan could still see outlined upon the shutter of the Rue de Vaugirard, and upon the door of the Rue de la Harpe.

And still further, the man wore the uniform of the musketeers.

The woman’s hood was pulled down, and the man held his handkerchief up to his face. Both, as this double precaution indicated—both had an interest, then, in not being recognized.

They followed the bridge. That was D’Artagnan’s road, since D’Artagnan was going to the Louvre. D’Artagnan followed them.

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

He felt at that instant all the suspicions of jealousy agitating his heart.

He was doubly betrayed—by his friend, and by her whom he already loved as a mistress. Madame Bonacieux had sworn by all that was holy that she did not know Aramis, and a quarter of an hour after she had taken this oath he found her hanging on Aramis’s arm.

The young man and woman had perceived they were followed, and had redoubled their speed. D’Artagnan hastened on, passed them, then turned on them at the moment they were before the Samaritaine, which was illuminated by a lamp that threw its light over all this part of the bridge.

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

“What do you want, sir?” demanded the musketeer, drawing back a step, and with a foreign accent which proved to D’Artagnan that he was deceived in one part of his conjectures at least.

“It is not Aramis!” cried he.

“No, sir, 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 unknown. “Allow me, then, to pass on, since it is not with me you have anything to do.”

“You are right, sir; it is not with you I have anything to do. It is with madame here.”

“With madame! You do not know her!” replied the stranger.

“You are mistaken, sir; I know her very well.”