“Ah, ah!” cried one of the Guards, “will you persist in saying, most discreet Aramis, that you are not on good terms with Madame de Bois-Tracy, when that gracious lady has the kindness to lend you one of her handkerchiefs?”

Aramis darted at d’Artagnan one of those looks which inform a man that he has acquired a mortal enemy. Then, resuming his mild air, “You are deceived, gentlemen,” said he, “this handkerchief is not mine, and I cannot fancy why Monsieur has taken it into his head to offer it to me rather than to one of you; and as a proof of what I say, here is mine in my pocket.”

So saying, he pulled out his own handkerchief, likewise a very elegant handkerchief, and of fine cambric⁠—though cambric was dear at the period⁠—but a handkerchief without embroidery and without arms, only ornamented with a single cipher, that of its proprietor.