“They are contained in this box， which you will not open until you are on the other side of the Channel.”
“Very well； and you， what are you going to do？”
“I—oh！ I shall return to Paris.”
“What！ without chastising this insolent boy？” asked the lady.
The unknown was about to reply， but at the moment he opened his mouth D’Artagnan， who had heard all， rushed forward through the open door.
“This insolent boy chastises others，” cried he； “and I sincerely hope that he whom he means to chastise will not escape him as he did before.”
“Will not escape him？” replied the unknown， knitting his brow.
“No； before a woman you would not dare to fly， I presume？”
“Remember，” cried milady， seeing the unknown lay his hand on his sword—“remember that the least delay may ruin everything.”
“True，” cried the gentleman. “Begone then your way， and I will go mine.” And bowing to the lady， he sprang into his saddle， her coachman at the same time applying his whip vigorously to his horses. The two interlocutors thus separated， taking opposite directions， at full gallop.
“Base coward！ false nobleman！” cried D’Artagnan， springing forward. But his wound had rendered him too weak to support such an exertion.
“He is a coward indeed，” grumbled the host， drawing near to D’Artagnan， and endeavouring by this little flattery to make up matters with the young man， as the heron of the fable did with the snail he had despised the evening before.
“Yes， a base coward，” murmured D’Artagnan； “but she—she was very beautiful.”
“What she？” demanded the host.
“Milady，” faltered D’Artagnan， and fainted the second time.
On the following morning， at five o’clock， D’Artagnan arose， and descending to the kitchen without help， asked， among other ingredients the list of which has not come down to us， for some oil， some wine， and some rosemary， and with his mother’s recipe in his hand， composed a balsam with which he anointed his numerous wounds， replacing his bandages himself， and positively refusing the assistance of any doctor. Thanks， no doubt， to the efficacy of the gypsy’s balsam， and perhaps， also， thanks to the absence of any doctor， D’Artagnan walked about that same evening， and was almost cured by the morrow.
But when the time of settlement came， D’Artagnan found nothing in his pocket but his little worn velvet purse with the eleven crowns it contained； as to the letter addressed to M. de Tréville， it had disappeared.
“My letter of recommendation！” cried D’Artagnan； “my letter of recommendation！ or， by God’s blood， I will spit you all like so many ortolans！”
“Does the letter contain anything valuable？” demanded the host， after a few minutes of useless investigation.
“Zounds！ I think it does， indeed，” cried the Gascon， who reckoned upon this letter for making his way at court； “it contained my fortune！”
A ray of light all at once broke upon the mind of the host， who was uttering maledictions upon finding nothing.
“That letter is not lost！” cried he.
“What！” said D’Artagnan.
“No； it has been stolen from you.”
“Stolen！ by whom？”
“By the gentleman who was here yesterday. He came down into the kitchen， where your doublet was. He remained there some time alone. I would lay a wager he has stolen it.”
“Do you think so？” answered D’Artagnan.
“I tell you I am sure of it，” continued the host. “When I informed him that your lordship was the protégé of M. de Tréville， and that you even had a letter for that illustrious nobleman， he appeared to be very much disturbed， and asked me where that letter was， and immediately came down into the kitchen， where he knew your doublet was.”
“Then he is the thief，” replied D’Artagnan. “I will complain to M. de Tréville， and M. de Tréville will complain to the king.” He then drew two crowns majestically from his purse， gave them to the host， who accompanied him， cap in hand， to the gate， remounted his yellow horse， which bore him without any further accident to the gate of St. Antoine at Paris， where his owner sold him for three crowns， which was a very good price， considering that D’Artagnan had ridden him hard on the last stretch.
So D’Artagnan entered Paris on foot， carrying his little packet under his arm， and wandered around till he found an apartment to be let on terms suited to the scantiness of his means. This chamber was a sort of garret， situated in the Rue des Fossoyeurs， near the Luxembourg.
Then he went to the Quai de la Ferraille， to have a new blade put to his sword， and came back to the Louvre， and inquired of the first musketeer he met the situation of the hotel of M. de Tréville， which proved to be in the Rue du Vieux-Colombier， in the immediate vicinity of the chamber hired by D’Artagnan， a circumstance which appeared to him to be a happy augury for the outcome of his journey.
After which， satisfied with the way in which he had conducted himself at Meung， without remorse for the past， confident in the present， and full of hope for the future， he retired to bed， and slept the sleep of the brave.
This sleep， rustic as it was， brought him to nine o’clock in the morning， at which hour he rose in order to repair to the residence of the famous M. de Tréville， the third personage in the kingdom， according to the estimation of his father.
