“Yes, sir, I certainly committed that imprudence; but why should I have done otherwise? A name like yours must be as a buckler to me on my way. Judge if I should not put myself under its protection.”
Flattery was at that period very current, and M. de Tréville loved incense as well as a king, or even a cardinal. He could not refrain from a smile of visible satisfaction; but this smile soon disappeared, and returning to the adventure of Meung, “Tell me,” continued he, “had not this gentlemen a slight scar on his cheek?”
“Yes, such a one as would be made by the grazing of a ball.”
“Was he not a fine-looking man?”
“Yes.”
“Of lofty stature.”
“Yes.”
“Of pale complexion and brown hair?”
“Yes, yes, that is he; how is it, sir, that you are acquainted with this man? If I ever find him again—and I will find him, I swear, were it in hell!”
“He was waiting for a woman,” continued Tréville.
“He departed immediately after having conversed for a minute with her whom he awaited.”
“You know not the subject of their conversation?”
“He gave her a box, told her not to open it except in London.”
“Was this woman English?”