Eleven o’clock sounded.

D’Artagnan began now really to fear that something had happened to Mme. Bonacieux.  He clapped his hands three times—­the ordinary signal of lovers; but nobody replied to him, not even an echo.

He then thought, with a touch of vexation, that perhaps the young woman had fallen asleep while waiting for him.  He approached the wall, and tried to climb it; but the wall had been recently pointed, and d’Artagnan could get no hold.

At that moment he thought of the trees, upon whose leaves the light still shone; and as one of them drooped over the road, he thought that from its branches he might get a glimpse of the interior of the pavilion.

The tree was easy to climb.  Besides, d’Artagnan was but twenty years old, and consequently had not yet forgotten his schoolboy habits.  In an instant he was among the branches, and his keen eyes plunged through the transparent panes into the interior of the pavilion.

It was a strange thing, and one which made d’Artagnan tremble from the sole of his foot to the roots of his hair, to find that this soft light, this calm lamp, enlightened a scene of fearful disorder.  One of the windows was broken, the door of the chamber had been beaten in and hung, split in two, on its hinges.  A table, which had been covered with an elegant supper, was overturned.  The decanters broken in pieces, and the fruits crushed, strewed the floor.  Everything in the apartment gave evidence of a violent and desperate struggle.  D’Artagnan even fancied he could recognize amid this strange disorder, fragments of garments, and some bloody spots staining the cloth and the curtains.  He hastened to descend into the street, with a frightful beating at his heart; he wished to see if he could find other traces of violence.

The little soft light shone on in the calmness of the night. d’Artagnan then perceived a thing that he had not before remarked—­for nothing had led him to the examination—­that the ground, trampled here and hoofmarked there, presented confused traces of men and horses.  Besides, the wheels of a carriage, which appeared to have come from Paris, had made a deep impression in the soft earth, which did not extend beyond the pavilion, but turned again toward Paris.

At length d’Artagnan, in pursuing his researches, found near the wall a woman’s torn glove.  This glove, wherever it had not touched the muddy ground, was of irreproachable odor.  It was one of those perfumed gloves that lovers like to snatch from a pretty hand.

As d’Artagnan pursued his investigations, a more abundant and more icy sweat rolled in large drops from his forehead; his heart was oppressed by a horrible anguish; his respiration was broken and short.  And yet he said, to reassure himself, that this pavilion perhaps had nothing in common with Mme. Bonacieux; that the young woman had made an appointment with him before the pavilion, and not in the pavilion; that she might have been detained in Paris by her duties, or perhaps by the jealousy of her husband.