“Thanks, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said Menneville.

“With that sum you can really become an honest man,” replied D’Artagnan, in the most serious tone possible.  “It would be disgraceful for a mind like yours, and a name you no longer dare to bear, to sink forever under the rust of an evil life.  Become a gallant man, Menneville, and live for a year upon those hundred gold crowns:  it is a good provision; twice the pay of a high officer.  In a year come to me, and, Mordioux! I will make something of you.”

Menneville swore, as his comrades had sworn, that he would be as silent as the grave.  And yet some one must have spoken; and as, certainly, it was not one of the nine companions, and quite as certainly, it was not Menneville, it must have been D’Artagnan, who, in his quality of a Gascon, had his tongue very near to his lips.  For, in short, if it were not he, who could it be?  And how can it be explained that the secret of the deal coffer pierced with holes should come to our knowledge, and in so complete a fashion that we have, as has been seen, related the history of it in all its most minute details; details which, besides, throw a light as new as unexpected upon all that portion of the history of England which has been left, up to the present day, completely in darkness by the historian of our neighbors?

Chapter XXXVIII:  In which it is seen that the French Grocer had already been established in the Seventeenth Century.

His accounts once settled, and his recommendations made, D’Artagnan thought of nothing but returning to Paris as soon as possible.  Athos, on his part, was anxious to reach home and to rest a little.  However whole the character and the man may remain after the fatigues of a voyage, the traveler perceives with pleasure, at the close of the day — even though the day has been a fine one — that night is approaching, and will bring a little sleep with it.  So, from Boulogne to Paris, jogging on, side by side, the two friends, in some degree absorbed each in his individual thoughts, conversed of nothing sufficiently interesting for us to repeat to our readers.  Each of them given up to his personal reflections, and constructing his future after his own fashion, was, above all, anxious to abridge the distance by speed.  Athos and D’Artagnan arrived at the gates of Paris on the evening of the fourth day after leaving Boulogne.

“Where are you going, my friend?” asked Athos.  “I shall direct my course straight to my hotel.”

“And I straight to my partner’s.”

“To Planchet’s?”

“Yes; at the Pilon d’Or.”

“Well, but shall we not meet again?”

“If you remain in Paris, yes; for I shall stay here.”

“No:  after having embraced Raoul, with whom I have appointed a meeting at my hotel, I shall set out immediately for La Fere.”

“Well, adieu, then, dear and true friend.”