“And will you make the same promise to my love?” cried d’Artagnan, beside himself with joy.

“Oh, as to that, I do not engage myself.  That depends upon the sentiments with which you may inspire me.”

“Then today, madame—­”

“Oh, today, I am no further than gratitude.”

“Ah!  You are too charming,” said d’Artagnan, sorrowfully; “and you abuse my love.”

“No, I use your generosity, that’s all.  But be of good cheer; with certain people, everything comes round.”

“Oh, you render me the happiest of men!  Do not forget this evening—­do not forget that promise.”

“Be satisfied.  In the proper time and place I will remember everything.  Now then, go, go, in the name of heaven!  I was expected at sharp midnight, and I am late.”

“By five minutes.”

“Yes; but in certain circumstances five minutes are five ages.”

“When one loves.”

“Well!  And who told you I had no affair with a lover?”

“It is a man, then, who expects you?” cried d’Artagnan.  “A man!”

“The discussion is going to begin again!” said Mme. Bonacieux, with a half-smile which was not exempt from a tinge of impatience.

“No, no; I go, I depart!  I believe in you, and I would have all the merit of my devotion, even if that devotion were stupidity.  Adieu, madame, adieu!”

And as if he only felt strength to detach himself by a violent effort from the hand he held, he sprang away, running, while Mme. Bonacieux knocked, as at the shutter, three light and regular taps.  When he had gained the angle of the street, he turned.  The door had been opened, and shut again; the mercer’s pretty wife had disappeared.

D’Artagnan pursued his way.  He had given his word not to watch Mme. Bonacieux, and if his life had depended upon the spot to which she was going or upon the person who should accompany her, d’Artagnan would have returned home, since he had so promised.  Five minutes later he was in the Rue des Fossoyeurs.

“Poor Athos!” said he; “he will never guess what all this means.  He will have fallen asleep waiting for me, or else he will have returned home, where he will have learned that a woman had been there.  A woman with Athos!  After all,” continued d’Artagnan, “there was certainly one with Aramis.  All this is very strange; and I am curious to know how it will end.”

“Badly, monsieur, badly!” replied a voice which the young man recognized as that of Planchet; for, soliloquizing aloud, as very preoccupied people do, he had entered the alley, at the end of which were the stairs which led to his chamber.

“How badly?  What do you mean by that, you idiot?” asked d’Artagnan.  “What has happened?”

“All sorts of misfortunes.”

“What?”

“In the first place, Monsieur Athos is arrested.”

“Arrested!  Athos arrested!  What for?”