And as if he only felt strength to detach himself by a violent effort from the hand he held, he sprang away, running, while Mme. Bonacieux knocked, as at the shutter, three light and regular taps. When he had gained the angle of the street, he turned. The door had been opened, and shut again; the mercer’s pretty wife had disappeared.
D’Artagnan pursued his way. He had given his word not to watch Mme. Bonacieux, and if his life had depended upon the spot to which she was going or upon the person who should accompany her, D’Artagnan would have returned home, since he had so promised. Five minutes later he was in the Rue des Fossoyeurs.
“Poor Athos!” said he; “he will never guess what all this means. He will have fallen asleep waiting for me, or else he will have returned home, where he will have learned that a woman had been there. A woman with Athos! After all,” continued D’Artagnan, “there was certainly one with Aramis. All this is very strange; and I am curious to know how it will end.”
“Badly, monsieur, badly!” replied a voice which the young man recognized as that of Planchet; for, soliloquizing aloud, as very preoccupied people do, he had entered the alley, at the end of which were the stairs which led to his chamber.
“How, badly? What do you mean by that, you idiot?” asked D’Artagnan. “What has happened?”
“All sorts of misfortunes.”
“What?”
“In the first place, Monsieur Athos is arrested.”
“Arrested! Athos arrested! What for?”
“He was found in your lodging; they took him for you.”