“Because a mistress is one of the cardinal’s favorite means; he has not one that is more expeditious.  A woman will sell you for ten pistoles, witness Delilah.  You are acquainted with the Scriptures?”

D’Artagnan thought of the appointment Mme. Bonacieux had made with him for that very evening; but we are bound to say, to the credit of our hero, that the bad opinion entertained by M. de Treville of women in general, did not inspire him with the least suspicion of his pretty hostess.

“But, A propos,” resumed M. de Treville, “what has become of your three companions?”

“I was about to ask you if you had heard any news of them?”

“None, monsieur.”

“Well, I left them on my road—­Porthos at Chantilly, with a duel on his hands; Aramis at Crevecoeur, with a ball in his shoulder; and Athos at Amiens, detained by an accusation of coining.”

“See there, now!” said M. de Treville; “and how the devil did you escape?”

“By a miracle, monsieur, I must acknowledge, with a sword thrust in my breast, and by nailing the Comte de Wardes on the byroad to Calais, like a butterfly on a tapestry.”

“There again!  De Wardes, one of the cardinal’s men, a cousin of Rochefort!  Stop, my friend, I have an idea.”

“Speak, monsieur.”

“In your place, I would do one thing.”

“What?”

“While his Eminence was seeking for me in Paris, I would take, without sound of drum or trumpet, the road to Picardy, and would go and make some inquiries concerning my three companions.  What the devil!  They merit richly that piece of attention on your part.”

“The advice is good, monsieur, and tomorrow I will set out.”

“Tomorrow!  Any why not this evening?”

“This evening, monsieur, I am detained in Paris by indispensable business.”

“Ah, young man, young man, some flirtation or other.  Take care, I repeat to you, take care.  It is woman who has ruined us, still ruins us, and will ruin us, as long as the world stands.  Take my advice and set out this evening.”

“Impossible, monsieur.”

“You have given your word, then?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Ah, that’s quite another thing; but promise me, if you should not be killed tonight, that you will go tomorrow.”

“I promise it.”

“Do you need money?”

“I have still fifty pistoles.  That, I think, is as much as I shall want.”

“But your companions?”

“I don’t think they can be in need of any.  We left Paris, each with seventy-five pistoles in his pocket.”

“Shall I see you again before your departure?”

“I think not, monsieur, unless something new should happen.”

“Well, a pleasant journey.”

“Thanks, monsieur.”

D’Artagnan left M. de Treville, touched more than ever by his paternal solicitude for his Musketeers.