“He called her Milady.”
“It is he; it must be he!” murmured Tréville. “I believed him still at Brussels.”
“Oh, sir, if you know who this man is,” cried d’Artagnan, “tell me who he is, and whence he is. I will then release you from all your promises—even that of procuring my admission into the Musketeers; for before everything, I wish to avenge myself.”
“Beware, young man!” cried Tréville. “If you see him coming on one side of the street, pass by on the other. Do not cast yourself against such a rock; he would break you like glass.”
“That will not prevent me,” replied d’Artagnan, “if ever I find him.”
“In the meantime,” said Tréville, “seek him not—if I have a right to advise you.”
All at once the captain stopped, as if struck by a sudden suspicion. This great hatred which the young traveler manifested so loudly for this man, who—a rather improbable thing—had stolen his father’s letter from him—was there not some perfidy concealed under this hatred? Might not this young man be sent by his Eminence? Might he not have come for the purpose of laying a snare for him? This pretended d’Artagnan—was he not an emissary of the cardinal, whom the cardinal sought to introduce into Tréville’s house, to place near him, to win his confidence, and afterward to ruin him as had been done in a thousand other instances? He fixed his eyes upon d’Artagnan even more earnestly than before. He was moderately reassured, however, by the aspect of that countenance, full of astute intelligence and affected humility. “I know he is a Gascon,” reflected he, “but he may be one for the cardinal as well as for me. Let us try him.”