“Be satisfied,” replied d’Artagnan; “the honor of no one will have cause to complain of what I have to tell.”
He then related to his friends, word for word, all that had passed between him and his host, and how the man who had abducted the wife of his worthy landlord was the same with whom he had had the difference at the hostelry of the Jolly Miller.
“Your affair is not bad,” said Athos, after having tasted like a connoisseur and indicated by a nod of his head that he thought the wine good; “and one may draw fifty or sixty pistoles from this good man. Then there only remains to ascertain whether these fifty or sixty pistoles are worth the risk of four heads.”
“But observe,” cried d’Artagnan, “that there is a woman in the affair—a woman carried off, a woman who is doubtless threatened, tortured perhaps, and all because she is faithful to her mistress.”
“Beware, d’Artagnan, beware,” said Aramis. “You grow a little too warm, in my opinion, about the fate of Madame Bonacieux. Woman was created for our destruction, and it is from her we inherit all our miseries.”
At this speech of Aramis, the brow of Athos became clouded and he bit his lips.
“It is not Madame Bonacieux about whom I am anxious,” cried d’Artagnan, “but the queen, whom the king abandons, whom the cardinal persecutes, and who sees the heads of all her friends fall, one after the other.”
“Why does she love what we hate most in the world, the Spaniards and the English?”
“Spain is her country,” replied d’Artagnan; “and it is very natural that she should love the Spanish, who are the children of the same soil as