“In my apartment you will be as safe as in a temple. I give you my word as a gentleman.”

“Let us go, then. I place full confidence in you, my friend.”

D’Artagnan carefully drew back the bolt, and both, light as shadows, glided through the interior door into the passage, ascended the stairs as quietly as possible, and entered D’Artagnan’s apartment.

Once in his apartment, for greater security the young man barricaded the door. They both went up to the window, and through a slit in the shutter they saw M. Bonacieux talking with a man in a cloak.

At the sight of this man D’Artagnan started, half drew his sword, and sprang towards the door.

It was the man of Meung. D’Artagnan drew near the window and listened.

M. Bonacieux had opened his door, and seeing the apartment empty, had returned to the man in the cloak, whom he had left alone for an instant.

“She is gone,” said he; “she must have gone back to the Louvre.”

“You are sure,” replied the stranger, “that she did not suspect the intention you had when you went out?”

“No,” replied Bonacieux, with a self-sufficient air, “she is too superficial a woman.”

“Let us walk into your apartment. We shall be safer there than in the doorway.”

D’Artagnan raised the three or four tiles which made of his chamber another ear of Dionysius, spread a carpet, went down upon his knees, and made a sign to Madame Bonacieux to stoop down toward the opening, as he did.

“And you think that your wife—” said Rochefort.“Has returned to the Louvre.”

“Without speaking to any one but yourself?”

“I am sure of it.”

“Please to understand that is an important point.”

“So the news I brought you, then, has some value—”

“A very great value, my dear Bonacieux. I don’t attempt to deny it.”

“Then the cardinal will be pleased with me?”

“No doubt he will.”

“The great cardinal!”

“Are you sure that in her conversation with you your wife mentioned no proper names?”

“I don’t think she did.”

“She did not name Madame de Chevreuse, the Duke of Buckingham, or Madame de Verne?”

“No; she only told me she wished to send me to London to further the interests of an illustrious personage.”

“Oh, the traitor!” murmured Madame Bonacieux.

“Silence!” whispered D’Artagnan, taking a hand which, without thinking of it, she suffered him to retain.