“Alas, sir,” said he, “I cannot but perceive how sadly I miss the letter of introduction which my father gave me to present to you.”
“I certainly am surprised,” replied M. de Tréville, “that you should undertake so long a journey without that necessary passport, the sole resource of us poor Béarnese.”
“I had one, sir, and, thank God, such as I could wish,” cried D’Artagnan; “but it was perfidiously stolen from me.”
He then related the adventure of Meung, described the unknown gentleman with the greatest minuteness, and all with a warmth and truthfulness that delighted M. de Tréville.
“This is all very strange,” said M. de Tréville, after meditating a minute; “you mentioned my name, then, aloud?”
“Yes, sir, I certainly committed that imprudence; but why should I have done otherwise? A name like yours must be as a buckler to me on my way. Judge if I should not put myself under its protection.”
Flattery was at that period very current, and M. de Tréville loved incense as well as a king, or even a cardinal. He could not refrain from a smile of visible satisfaction; but this smile soon disappeared, and returning to the adventure of Meung, “Tell me,” continued he, “had not this gentlemen a slight scar on his cheek?”
“Yes, such a one as would be made by the grazing of a ball.”
“Was he not a fine-looking man?”
“Yes.”