“And by whom? Do you know him? Oh, if you know him, tell me!”
“By a man of from forty to forty-five years, with black hair, a dark complexion, and a scar on his left temple.”
“That is he, that is he; but his name?”
“Ah, his name? I do not know that.”
“And did my husband know I had been carried off?”
“He was informed of it by a letter, written to him by the abductor himself.”
“And does he suspect,” said Madame Bonacieux, with some embarrassment, “the cause of this event?”
“He attributed it, I believe, to a political cause.”
“I doubted from the first; and now I think entirely as he does. Then my dear M. Bonacieux has not suspected me a single instant?”
“So far from it, Madame, he was too proud of your prudence, and above all, of your love.”
A second smile, almost imperceptible, stole over the rosy lips of the pretty young woman.
“But,” continued d’Artagnan, “how did you escape?”
“I took advantage of a moment when they left me alone; and as I had known since morning the reason of my abduction, with the help of the sheets I let myself down from the window. Then, as I believed my husband would be at home, I hastened hither.”
“To place yourself under his protection?”