“But I have sworn to kill that man!” said d’Artagnan.
“Your life is devoted from this moment, and does not belong to you. In the name of the queen I forbid you to throw yourself into any peril which is foreign to that of your journey.”
“And do you command nothing in your own name?”
“In my name,” said Madame Bonacieux, with great emotion, “in my name I beg you! But listen; they appear to be speaking of me.”
D’Artagnan drew near the window, and lent his ear.
M. Bonacieux had opened his door, and seeing the apartment, had returned to the man in the cloak, whom he had left alone for an instant.
“She is gone,” said he; “she must have returned to the Louvre.”
“You are sure,” replied the stranger, “that she did not suspect the intentions with which you went out?”
“No,” replied Bonacieux, with a self-sufficient air, “she is too superficial a woman.”
“Is the young guardsman at home?”
“I do not think he is; as you see, his shutter is closed, and you can see no light shine through the chinks of the shutters.”
“All the same, it is well to be certain.”
“How so?”
“By knocking at his door. Go.”
“I will ask his servant.”