“But I tell you, Monsieur commissary,” cried Bonacieux, in his turn, “there is not the least doubt about the matter. M. d’Artagnan is my tenant, although he does not pay me my rent⁠—and even better on that account ought I to know him. M. d’Artagnan is a young man, scarcely nineteen or twenty, and this gentleman must be thirty at least. M. d’Artagnan is in M. des Essart’s Guards, and this gentleman is in the company of M. de Tréville’s Musketeers. Look at his uniform, Monsieur commissary, look at his uniform!”

“That’s true,” murmured the commissary; “ pardieu , that’s true.”