“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.”

“Monsieur doubts my sincerity?  Ah, monsieur, that grieves me much.”

“The devil take his gilded tongue!” grumbled D’Artagnan.  “A clown with a word would be worth a dozen of him.  Adieu!”

“Monsieur, I have the honor to present you my respects.”

“Cuistre!” said D’Artagnan to himself, “the fellow is unbearable.”  He gave another look up to the house, turned his horse’s head, and set off like a man who has nothing either annoying or embarrassing in his mind.  When he was at the end of the wall, and out of sight, — “Well, now, I wonder,” said he, breathing quickly, “whether Athos was at home.  No; all those idlers, standing with their arms crossed, would have been at work if the eye of the master was near.  Athos gone on a journey? — that is incomprehensible.  Bah! it is all devilish mysterious!  And then — no — he is not the man I want.  I want one of a cunning, patient mind.  My business is at Melun, in a certain presbytery I am acquainted with.  Forty-five leagues — four days and a half!  Well, it is fine weather, and I am free.  Never mind the distance!”

And he put his horse into a trot, directing his course towards Paris.  On the fourth day he alighted at Melun, as he had intended.

D’Artagnan was never in the habit of asking any one on the road for any common information.  For these sorts of details, unless in very serious circumstances, he confided in his perspicacity, which was so seldom at fault, in his experience of thirty years, and in a great habit of reading the physiognomies of houses, as well as those of men.  At Melun, D’Artagnan immediately found the presbytery — a charming house, plastered over red brick, with vines climbing along the gutters, and a cross, in carved stone, surmounting the ridge of the roof.  From the ground-floor of this house came a noise, or rather a confusion of voices, like the chirping of young birds when the brood is just hatched under the down.  One of these voices was spelling the alphabet distinctly.  A voice thick, yet pleasant, at the same time scolded the talkers and corrected the faults of the reader.  D’Artagnan recognized that voice, and as the window of the ground-floor was open, he leant down from his horse under the branches and red fibers of the vine and cried, “Bazin, my dear Bazin! good-day to you.”