“This doctor has a niece,” continued Aramis.

“Ah, he has a niece!” interrupted Porthos.

“A very respectable lady,” said Aramis.

The three friends burst into laughter.

“Ah, if you laugh, if you doubt me,” replied Aramis, “you shall know nothing.”

“We believe like Mohammedans, and are as mute as tombstones,” said Athos.

“I will continue, then,” resumed Aramis.  “This niece comes sometimes to see her uncle; and by chance was there yesterday at the same time that I was, and it was my duty to offer to conduct her to her carriage.”

“Ah!  She has a carriage, then, this niece of the doctor?” interrupted Porthos, one of whose faults was a great looseness of tongue.  “A nice acquaintance, my friend!”

“Porthos,” replied Aramis, “I have had the occasion to observe to you more than once that you are very indiscreet; and that is injurious to you among the women.”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” cried d’Artagnan, who began to get a glimpse of the result of the adventure, “the thing is serious.  Let us try not to jest, if we can.  Go on Aramis, go on.”

“All at once, a tall, dark gentleman—­just like yours, d’Artagnan.”

“The same, perhaps,” said he.

“Possibly,” continued Aramis, “came toward me, accompanied by five or six men who followed about ten paces behind him; and in the politest tone, ‘Monsieur Duke,’ said he to me, ’and you madame,’ continued he, addressing the lady on my arm—­”

“The doctor’s niece?”

“Hold your tongue, Porthos,” said Athos; “you are insupportable.”

“’—­will you enter this carriage, and that without offering the least resistance, without making the least noise?’”

“He took you for Buckingham!” cried d’Artagnan.

“I believe so,” replied Aramis.

“But the lady?” asked Porthos.

“He took her for the queen!” said d’Artagnan.

“Just so,” replied Aramis.

“The Gascon is the devil!” cried Athos; “nothing escapes him.”

“The fact is,” said Porthos, “Aramis is of the same height, and something of the shape of the duke; but it nevertheless appears to me that the dress of a Musketeer—­”

“I wore an enormous cloak,” said Aramis.

“In the month of July?  The devil!” said Porthos.  “Is the doctor afraid that you may be recognized?”

“I can comprehend that the spy may have been deceived by the person; but the face—­”

“I had a large hat,” said Aramis.

“Oh, good lord,” cried Porthos, “what precautions for the study of theology!”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” said d’Artagnan, “do not let us lose our time in jesting.  Let us separate, and let us seek the mercer’s wife—­that is the key of the intrigue.”

“A woman of such inferior condition!  Can you believe so?” said Porthos, protruding his lips with contempt.

“She is goddaughter to Laporte, the confidential valet of the queen.  Have I not told you so, gentlemen?  Besides, it has perhaps been her Majesty’s calculation to seek on this occasion for support so lowly.  High heads expose themselves from afar, and the cardinal is longsighted.”