“The short one.”
“Oh, he was not a gentleman, I’ll answer for it; besides, he did not wear a sword, and the others treated him with small consideration.”
“Some lackey,” murmured D’Artagnan. “Poor woman, poor woman, what have they done with you?”
“You have promised to be secret, my good monsieur?” said the old man.
“And I renew my promise. Be easy, I am a gentleman. A gentleman has but his word, and I have given you mine.”
With a heavy heart, D’Artagnan again bent his way toward the ferry. Sometimes he hoped it could not be Mme. Bonacieux, and that he should find her next day at the Louvre; sometimes he feared she had had an intrigue with another, 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 past midnight; the next thing was to find Planchet. D’Artagnan went successively into all the cabarets in which there was a light, but could not find Planchet in any of them.
At the sixth he began to reflect that the search was rather dubious. D’Artagnan had appointed six o’clock in the morning for his lackey, and wherever he might be, he was right.
Besides, it came into the young man’s mind that by remaining in the environs of the spot on which this sad event had passed, he would, perhaps, have some light thrown upon the mysterious affair. At the sixth cabaret, then, as we said, D’Artagnan stopped, asked for a bottle of wine of the best quality, and placing himself in the darkest corner of the room, determined thus to wait till daylight; but this time again his hopes were disappointed, and although he listened with all his ears, he heard nothing, amid the oaths, coarse jokes, and abuse which passed between the laborers, servants, and carters who comprised the honorable society of which he formed a part, which could put him upon the least track of her who had been stolen from him. He was compelled, then, after having swallowed the contents of his bottle, to pass the time as well as to evade suspicion, to fall into the easiest position in his corner and to sleep, whether well or ill. D’Artagnan, be it remembered, was only twenty years old, and at that age sleep has its imprescriptible rights which it imperiously insists upon, even with the saddest hearts.