“This is all very strange,” said M. de Treville, after meditating a minute; “you mentioned my name, then, aloud?”

“Yes, sir, I certainly committed that imprudence; but why should I have done otherwise?  A name like yours must be as a buckler to me on my way.  Judge if I should not put myself under its protection.”

Flattery was at that period very current, and M. de Treville loved incense as well as a king, or even a cardinal.  He could not refrain from a smile of visible satisfaction; but this smile soon disappeared, and returning to the adventure of Meung, “Tell me,” continued he, “had not this gentlemen a slight scar on his cheek?”

“Yes, such a one as would be made by the grazing of a ball.”

“Was he not a fine-looking man?”

“Yes.”

“Of lofty stature.”

“Yes.”

“Of complexion and brown hair?”

“Yes, yes, that is he; how is it, sir, that you are acquainted with this man?  If I ever find him again—­and I will find him, I swear, were it in hell!”

“He was waiting for a woman,” continued Treville.

“He departed immediately after having conversed for a minute with her whom he awaited.”

“You know not the subject of their conversation?”

“He gave her a box, told her not to open it except in London.”

“Was this woman English?”

“He called her Milady.”

“It is he; it must be he!” murmured Treville.  “I believed him still at Brussels.”

“Oh, sir, if you know who this man is,” cried d’Artagnan, “tell me who he is, and whence he is.  I will then release you from all your promises—­even that of procuring my admission into the Musketeers; for before everything, I wish to avenge myself.”

“Beware, young man!” cried Treville.  “If you see him coming on one side of the street, pass by on the other.  Do not cast yourself against such a rock; he would break you like glass.”

“That will not prevent me,” replied d’Artagnan, “if ever I find him.”

“In the meantime,” said Treville, “seek him not—­if I have a right to advise you.”

All at once the captain stopped, as if struck by a sudden suspicion.  This great hatred which the young traveler manifested so loudly for this man, who—­a rather improbable thing—­had stolen his father’s letter from him—­was there not some perfidy concealed under this hatred?  Might not this young man be sent by his Eminence?  Might he not have come for the purpose of laying a snare for him?  This pretended d’Artagnan—­was he not an emissary of the cardinal, whom the cardinal sought to introduce into Treville’s house, to place near him, to win his confidence, and afterward to ruin him as had been done in a thousand other instances?  He fixed his eyes upon d’Artagnan even more earnestly than before.  He was moderately reassured however, by the aspect of that countenance, full of astute intelligence and affected humility.  “I know he is a Gascon,” reflected he, “but he may be one for the cardinal as well as for me.  Let us try him.”