“Well, I left them on my road⁠—Porthos at Chantilly, with a duel on his hands; Aramis at Crèvecoeur, with a ball in his shoulder; and Athos at Amiens, detained by an accusation of coining.”

“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?”