“Hold your tongue and take it!” said d’Artagnan. “And you, my friend, there is a demipistole for your trouble; you will tell M. de Tréville that M. Aramis is very much obliged to him. Go.”
The lackey bowed to the ground and departed.
“What does all this mean?” asked Aramis.
“Pack up all you want for a journey of a fortnight, and follow me.”
“But I cannot leave Paris just now without knowing—”
Aramis stopped.
“What is become of her? I suppose you mean—” continued d’Artagnan.
“Become of whom?” replied Aramis.
“The woman who was here—the woman with the embroidered handkerchief.”
“Who told you there was a woman here?” replied Aramis, becoming as pale as death.
“I saw her.”
“And you know who she is?”
“I believe I can guess, at least.”
“Listen!” said Aramis. “Since you appear to know so many things, can you tell me what is become of that woman?”
“I presume that she has returned to Tours.”
“To Tours? Yes, that may be. You evidently know her. But why did she return to Tours without telling me anything?”