M. Fouquet has been guilty of an armed revolt.  Thus, while the king vaguely suspects M. Fouquet of rebellion, I know it — I could prove that M. Fouquet had caused the shedding of the blood of his majesty’s subjects.  Now, then, let us see.  Knowing all that, and holding my tongue, what further would this heart wish in return for a kind action of M. Fouquet’s, for an advance of fifteen thousand livres, for a diamond worth a thousand pistoles, for a smile in which there was as much bitterness as kindness? — I save his life.”

“Now, then, I hope,” continued the musketeer, “that this imbecile of a heart is going to preserve silence, and so be fairly quits with M. Fouquet.  Now, then, the king becomes my sun, and as my heart is quits with M. Fouquet, let him beware who places himself between me and my sun!  Forward, for his majesty Louis XIV.! — Forward !”

These reflections were the only impediments which were able to retard the progress of D’Artagnan.  These reflections once made, he increased the speed of his horse.  But, however perfect his horse Zephyr might be, it could not hold out at such a pace forever.  The day after his departure from Paris, his mount was left at Chartres, at the house of an old friend D’Artagnan had met with in an hotelier of that city.  From that moment the musketeer travelled on post-horses.  Thanks to this mode of locomotion, he traversed the space separating Chartres from Chateaubriand.  In the last of these two cities, far enough from the coast to prevent any one guessing that D’Artagnan wished to reach the sea — far enough from Paris to prevent all suspicion of his being a messenger from Louis XIV., whom D’Artagnan had called his sun, without suspecting that he who was only at present a rather poor star in the heaven of royalty, would, one day, make that star his emblem; the messenger of Louis XIV., we say, quitted his post and purchased a bidet of the meanest appearance, — one of those animals which an officer of the cavalry would never choose, for fear of being disgraced.  Excepting the color, this new acquisition recalled to the mind of D’Artagnan the famous orange-colored horse, with which, or rather upon which, he had made his first appearance in the world.  Truth to say, from the moment he crossed this new steed, it was no longer D’Artagnan who was travelling, — it was a good man clothed in an iron-gray justaucorps, brown haut-de-chausses, holding the medium between a priest and a layman; that which brought him nearest to the churchman was, that D’Artagnan had placed on his head a calotte of threadbare velvet, and over the calotte, a large black hat; no more sword, a stick hung by a cord to his wrist, but to which, he promised himself, as an unexpected auxiliary, to join, upon occasion, a good dagger, ten inches long, concealed under his cloak.  The bidet purchased at Chateaubriand completed the metamorphosis; it was called, or rather D’Artagnan called if, Furet (ferret).