“I had one—she was of this country; but monsieur thought her a noisy scold, and I sent her to Paris; it is sometimes inconvenient, but very agreeable at others.”
“I understand; but go on. You do not believe the count gone to Paris?”
“No, monsieur; for then M. Grimaud would have broken his word; he would have perjured himself, and that is impossible.”
“That is impossible,” repeated D’Artagnan, quite in a study, because he was quite convinced. “Well, my brave Blaisois, many thanks to you.”
Blaisois bowed.
“Come, you know I am not curious—I have serious business with your master. Could you not, by a little bit of a word—you who speak so well—give me to understand—one syllable, only—I will guess the rest.”
“Upon my word, monsieur, I cannot. I am quite ignorant where monsieur le comte is gone. As to listening at doors, that is contrary to my nature; and besides it is forbidden here.”
“My dear fellow,” said D’Artagnan, “this is a very bad beginning for me. Never mind, you know when monsieur le comte will return, at least?”
“As little, monsieur, as the place of his destination.”
“Come, Blaisois, come, search.”