Then D’Artagnan ceased to knock, and entreated with an accent so full of anxiety and promises, terror and persuasion, that his voice was of a nature to reassure the most timid. At length an old, worm-eaten shutter was opened, or rather pushed ajar, but closed again as soon as the light from a miserable lamp burning in the corner had shone upon D’Artagnan’s baldric, sword-hilt, and pistol pommels. Nevertheless, rapid as the movement had been, D’Artagnan had had time to get a glimpse of an old man’s head.
“In the name of Heaven,” cried he, “listen to me! I have been waiting for some one who has not come. I am dying with anxiety. Could any misfortune have happened in the neighbourhood? Speak!”
The window was again opened slowly, and the same face appeared again. Only it was paler than before.
D’Artagnan related his story simply, with the omission of names. He told how he had an appointment with a young woman before that pavilion, and how, seeing she did not come, he had climbed the linden tree, and by the lamplight had seen the disorder of the chamber.
The old man read so much truth and so much grief in the young man’s face that he made a sign to listen, and speaking in a low voice, said,
“It was about nine o’clock when I heard a noise in the street, and was wondering what it could be, when, on coming to my gate, I found that somebody was endeavouring to open it. As I am poor, and am not afraid of being robbed, I went and opened the gate, and saw three men at a few paces from it. In the shade was a coach with horses, and some saddle-horses. These saddle-horses evidently belonged to the three men, who were dressed as cavaliers.
“‘Ah, my worthy gentlemen,’ cried I, ‘what do you want?’
“‘Have you a ladder?’ said the one who appeared to be the leader of the party.
“Yes, sir—the one with which I gather my fruit.”
“‘Lend it to us, and go into your house again. There is a crown for the trouble we cause you. Only remember this, if you speak a word of what you may see or hear (for you will look and listen, I am quite sure, however we may threaten you), you are lost.’
“At these words he threw me a crown, which I picked up, and he took my ladder.
“Well, then, after I had shut the gate behind them, I pretended to go into the house again; but I immediately went out at a back door, and stealing along in the shade, I gained yonder clump of elder, from which I could see everything without being seen.
“The three men brought the carriage up quietly, and took out of it a little, short, stout, elderly man, poorly dressed in dark-coloured clothes. He climbed the ladder very carefully, looked slyly in at the window of the pavilion, came down as quietly as he had gone up, and whispered,
“‘It is she!’
“Immediately the one who had spoken to me approached the door of the pavilion, opened it with a key he had in his hand, closed the door, and disappeared, while at the time the other two men mounted the ladder. The little old man remained at the coach door, the coachman took care of his horses, a lackey held the saddle-horses.
“All at once loud screams resounded in the pavilion, and a woman ran to the window and opened it, as if to throw herself out of it; but as soon as she perceived the other two men, she sprang back, and they got into the chamber.
“Then I saw no more, but I heard the noise of breaking furniture. The woman screamed and cried for help, but her cries were soon stifled. Two of the men appeared, bearing the woman in their arms, and carried her to the carriage; the little old man entered it after her. The one who stayed in the pavilion closed the window, came out an instant after at the door, and satisfied himself that the woman was in the carriage. His two companions were already on horseback; he sprang into the saddle, the lackey took his place by the coachman, the carriage went off at a rapid pace, escorted by the three horseman, and all was over. From that moment I have neither seen nor heard anything.
D’Artagnan, entirely overcome by such terrible news, remained motionless and mute, while all the demons of anger and jealousy were howling in his heart.
“But, my good gentleman,” resumed the old man, upon whom this mute despair certainly produced a greater effect than cries and tears would have done, “do not take on so; they did not kill her—that’s the main thing.”
With a broken heart D’Artagnan again bent his way toward the ferry. Sometimes he could not believe it was Madame Bonacieux, and hoped he should find her next day at the Louvre; sometimes he feared she had been having an intrigue with some one else, who, in a jealous fit, had surprised her and carried her off. His mind was torn by doubt, grief, and despair.
“Oh, if I had my three friends here,” cried he, “I should have, at least, some hopes of finding her; but who knows what has become of them?
”It was almost midnight; he decided to pass the night in an inn. D’Artagnan, be it remembered, was only twenty years old, and at that age sleep has imprescriptible rights, which it imperiously insists upon, even over the saddest hearts.
