He stopped, therefore, trembling not for himself but for the poor woman who had evidently exposed herself to great danger by appointing this rendezvous.

The carriage pursued its way, still going at a great pace, till it dashed into Paris, and disappeared.

D’Artagnan remained fixed to the spot, astounded and not knowing what to think. If it was Madame Bonacieux and if she was returning to Paris, why this fugitive rendezvous, why this simple exchange of a glance, why this lost kiss? If, on the other side, it was not she, which was still quite possible⁠—for the little light that remained rendered a mistake easy⁠—if it was not she, might it not be the commencement of some plot against him through the allurement of this woman, for whom his love was known?

His three companions joined him. All had plainly seen a woman’s head appear at the window, but none of them, except Athos, knew Madame Bonacieux. The opinion of Athos was that it was indeed she; but less preoccupied by that pretty face than d’Artagnan, he had fancied he saw a second head, a man’s head, inside the carriage.