“See there, now!” said M. de Tréville; “and how the devil did you escape?”
“By a miracle, Monsieur, I must acknowledge, with a sword thrust in my breast, and by nailing the Comte de Wardes on the byroad to Calais, like a butterfly on a tapestry.”
“There again! De Wardes, one of the cardinal’s men, a cousin of Rochefort! Stop, my friend, I have an idea.”
“Speak, Monsieur.”
“In your place, I would do one thing.”
“What?”
“While his Eminence was seeking for me in Paris, I would take, without sound of drum or trumpet, the road to Picardy, and would go and make some inquiries concerning my three companions. What the devil! They merit richly that piece of attention on your part.”
“The advice is good, Monsieur, and tomorrow I will set out.”
“Tomorrow! Any why not this evening?”
“This evening, Monsieur, I am detained in Paris by indispensable business.”
“Ah, young man, young man, some flirtation or other. Take care, I repeat to you, take care. It is woman who has ruined us, still ruins us, and will ruin us, as long as the world stands. Take my advice and set out this evening.”
“Impossible, Monsieur.”
“You have given your word, then?”