The cardinal was for him the fascinating serpent, and himself the bird which flies from branch to branch without power to escape.
The return to La Rochelle, therefore, was profoundly dull. Our four friends, in particular, astonished their comrades; they traveled together, side by side, with sad eyes and heads lowered. Athos alone from time to time raised his expansive brow; a flash kindled in his eyes, and a bitter smile passed over his lips, then, like his comrades, he sank again into reverie.
As soon as the escort arrived in a city, when they had conducted the king to his quarters the four friends either retired to their own or to some secluded cabaret, where they neither drank nor played; they only conversed in a low voice, looking around attentively to see that no one overheard them.
One day, when the king had halted to fly the magpie, and the four friends, according to their custom, instead of following the sport had stopped at a cabaret on the high road, a man coming from la Rochelle on horseback pulled up at the door to drink a glass of wine, and darted a searching glance into the room where the four Musketeers were sitting.
“Holloa, Monsieur d’Artagnan!” said he, “is not that you whom I see yonder?”
D’Artagnan raised his head and uttered a cry of joy. It was the man he called his phantom; it was his stranger of Meung, of the Rue des Fossoyeurs and of Arras.
D’Artagnan drew his sword, and sprang toward the door.
But this time, instead of avoiding him the stranger jumped from his horse, and advanced to meet D’Artagnan.
“Ah, monsieur!” said the young man, “I meet you, then, at last! This time you shall not escape me!”
“Neither is it my intention, monsieur, for this time I was seeking you; in the name of the king, I arrest you.”