D’Artagnan, mute with anger and anxiety, took a seat in the threatening attitude of a judge. Planchet glared fiercely over the back of his armchair.
“Here is the story, monseigneur,” resumed the trembling host; “for I now recollect you. It was you who rode off at the moment I had that unfortunate difference with the gentleman you speak of.”
“Yes, it was I; so you may plainly perceive that you have no mercy to expect if you do not tell me the whole truth.”
“Condescend to listen to me, and you shall know all.”
“I listen.”
“I had been warned by the authorities that a celebrated coiner of bad money would arrive at my inn, with several of his companions, all disguised as Guards or Musketeers. Monseigneur, I was furnished with a description of your horses, your lackeys, your countenances—nothing was omitted.”
“Go on, go on!” said D’Artagnan, who quickly understood whence such an exact description had come.
“I took then, in conformity with the orders of the authorities, who sent me a reinforcement of six men, such measures as I thought necessary to get possession of the persons of the pretended coiners.”
“Again!” said D’Artagnan, whose ears chafed terribly under the repetition of this word coiners.
“Pardon me, monseigneur, for saying such things, but they form my excuse. The authorities had terrified me, and you know that an innkeeper must keep on good terms with the authorities.”