"I should have had you for a friend! But how shall we return to Nantes? We are a great way from it."
"That is true," said D'Artagnan, gloomy and sad.
"The white horse will recover, perhaps; he is a good horse! Mount, Monsieur d'Artagnan; I will walk till you have rested a little."
"Poor beast! and wounded too!" said the musketeer.
"He will go, I tell you; I know him; but we can do better still, let us both get up, and ride slowly."
"We can try," said the captain. But they had scarcely charged the animal with this double load than he began to stagger, then, with a great effort, walked a few minutes, then staggered again, and sank down dead by the side of the black horse, which he had just managed to come up to.
"We will go on foot—destiny wills it so—the walk will be pleasant," said Fouquet, passing his arm through that of D'Artagnan.
"Mordioux!" cried the latter, with a fixed eye, a contracted brow, and a swelling heart—"A disgraceful day!"
They walked slowly the four leagues which separated them from the little wood behind which waited the carriage with the escort. When Fouquet perceived that sinister machine, he said to D'Artagnan, who cast down his eyes as ashamed of Louis XIV., "There is an idea which is not that of a brave man, Captain d'Artagnan; it is not yours. What are these gratings for?" said he.
"To prevent your throwing letters out."