“Well, then, after I had shut the gate behind them, I pretended to go into the house again; but I immediately went out at a back door, and stealing along in the shade, I gained yonder clump of elder, from which I could see everything without being seen.

“The three men brought the carriage up quietly, and took out of it a little, short, stout, elderly man, poorly dressed in dark-coloured clothes. He climbed the ladder very carefully, looked slyly in at the window of the pavilion, came down as quietly as he had gone up, and whispered,

“‘It is she!’

“Immediately the one who had spoken to me approached the door of the pavilion, opened it with a key he had in his hand, closed the door, and disappeared, while at the time the other two men mounted the ladder. The little old man remained at the coach door, the coachman took care of his horses, a lackey held the saddle-horses.

“All at once loud screams resounded in the pavilion, and a woman ran to the window and opened it, as if to throw herself out of it; but as soon as she perceived the other two men, she sprang back, and they got into the chamber.

“Then I saw no more, but I heard the noise of breaking furniture. The woman screamed and cried for help, but her cries were soon stifled. Two of the men appeared, bearing the woman in their arms, and carried her to the carriage; the little old man entered it after her. The one who stayed in the pavilion closed the window, came out an instant after at the door, and satisfied himself that the woman was in the carriage. His two companions were already on horseback; he sprang into the saddle, the lackey took his place by the coachman, the carriage went off at a rapid pace, escorted by the three horseman, and all was over. From that moment I have neither seen nor heard anything.

D’Artagnan, entirely overcome by such terrible news, remained motionless and mute, while all the demons of anger and jealousy were howling in his heart.

“But, my good gentleman,” resumed the old man, upon whom this mute despair certainly produced a greater effect than cries and tears would have done, “do not take on so; they did not kill her—that’s the main thing.”

With a broken heart D’Artagnan again bent his way toward the ferry. Sometimes he could not believe it was Madame Bonacieux, and hoped he should find her next day at the Louvre; sometimes he feared she had been having an intrigue with some one else, who, in a jealous fit, had surprised her and carried her off. His mind was torn by doubt, grief, and despair.

“Oh, if I had my three friends here,” cried he, “I should have, at least, some hopes of finding her; but who knows what has become of them?

”It was almost midnight; he decided to pass the night in an inn. D’Artagnan, be it remembered, was only twenty years old, and at that age sleep has imprescriptible rights, which it imperiously insists upon, even over the saddest hearts.