The three friends hastened toward d’Artagnan, who, instead of being ill, ran toward his horse. They stopped him at the door.
“Well, where the devil are you going now?” cried Athos.
“It is he!” cried d’Artagnan, pale with anger, and with the sweat on his brow, “it is he! let me overtake him!”
“He? What he?” asked Athos.
“He, that man!”
“What man?”
“That cursed man, my evil genius, whom I have always met with when threatened by some misfortune, he who accompanied that horrible woman when I met her for the first time, he whom I was seeking when I offended our Athos, he whom I saw on the very morning Madame Bonacieux was abducted. I have seen him; that is he! I recognized him when the wind blew upon his cloak.”
“The devil!” said Athos, musingly.
“To saddle, gentlemen! to saddle! Let us pursue him, and we shall overtake him!”
“My dear friend,” said Aramis, “remember that he goes in an opposite direction from that in which we are going, that he has a fresh horse, and ours are fatigued, so that we shall disable our own horses without even a chance of overtaking him. Let the man go, d’Artagnan; let us save the woman.”
“Monsieur, Monsieur!” cried a hostler, running out and looking after the stranger, “Monsieur, here is a paper which dropped out of your hat! Eh, Monsieur, eh!”