“But as you spoke to him you must have seen him.”
“Oh, it’s a description you want?”
“Exactly so.”
“A tall, dark man, with black mustaches, dark eyes, and the air of a gentleman.”
“That’s the man!” cried d’Artagnan, “again he, forever he! He is my demon, apparently. And the other?”
“Which?”
“The short one.”
“Oh, he was not a gentleman, I’ll answer for it; besides, he did not wear a sword, and the others treated him with small consideration.”
“Some lackey,” murmured d’Artagnan. “Poor woman, poor woman, what have they done with you?”
“You have promised to be secret, my good Monsieur?” said the old man.
“And I renew my promise. Be easy, I am a gentleman. A gentleman has but his word, and I have given you mine.”
With a heavy heart, d’Artagnan again bent his way toward the ferry. Sometimes he hoped it could not be Madame Bonacieux, and that he should find her next day at the Louvre; sometimes he feared she had had an intrigue with another, who, in a jealous fit, had surprised her and carried her off. His mind was torn by doubt, grief, and despair.
“Oh, if I had my three friends here,” cried he, “I should have, at least, some hopes of finding her; but who knows what has become of them?”