LITMIR.BIZ

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      The face of the commissary grew still darker.

      “You should recognize him among a thousand, say you?” continued he.

      “That is to say,” cried Bonacieux, who saw he had taken a false step, “that is to say—”

      “You have answered that you should recognize him,” said the commissary. “That is all very well, and enough for today; before we proceed further, someone must be informed that you know the ravisher of your wife.”

      “But I have not told you that I know him!” cried Bonacieux, in despair. “I told you, on the contrary—”

      “Take away the prisoner,” said the commissary to the two guards.

      “Where must we place him?” demanded the chief.

      “In a dungeon.”

      “Which?”

      “Good Lord! In the first one handy, provided it is safe,” said the commissary, with an indifference which penetrated poor Bonacieux with horror.

      “Alas, alas!” said he to himself, “misfortune is over my head; my wife must have committed some frightful crime. They believe me her accomplice, and will punish me with her. She must have spoken; she must have confessed everything—a woman is so weak! A dungeon! The first he comes to! That’s it! A night is soon passed; and tomorrow to the wheel, to the gallows! Oh, my God, my God, have pity on me!”

      Without listening the least in the world to the lamentations of M. Bonacieux—lamentations to which, besides, they must have been pretty well accustomed—the two guards took the prisoner each by an arm, and led him away, while the commissary wrote a letter in haste and dispatched it by an officer in waiting.

      Bonacieux could not close his eyes; not because his dungeon was so very disagreeable, but because his uneasiness was so great. He sat all night on his stool, starting at the least noise; and when the first rays of the sun penetrated into his chamber, the dawn itself appeared to him to have taken funereal tints.

      All at once he heard his bolts drawn, and made a terrified bound. He believed they were come to conduct him to the scaffold; so that when he saw merely and simply, instead of the executioner he expected, only his commissary of the preceding evening, attended by his clerk, he was ready to embrace them both.

      “Your affair has become more complicated since yesterday evening, my good man, and I advise you to tell the whole truth; for your repentance alone can remove the anger of the cardinal.”

      “Why, I am ready to tell everything,” cried Bonacieux, “at least, all that I know. Interrogate me, I entreat you!”

      “Where is your wife, in the first place?”

      “Why, did not I tell you she had been stolen from me?”

      “Yes, but yesterday at five o’clock in the afternoon, thanks to you, she escaped.”

      “My wife escaped!” cried Bonacieux. “Oh, unfortunate creature! Monsieur, if she has escaped, it is not my fault, I swear.”

      “What business had you, then, to go into the chamber of Monsieur d’Artagnan, your neighbor, with whom you had a long conference during the day?”

      “Ah, yes, Monsieur Commissary; yes, that is true, and I confess that I was in the wrong. I did go to Monsieur d’Artagnan’s.”

      “What was the aim of that visit?”

      “To beg him to assist me in finding my wife. I believed I had a right to endeavor to find her. I was deceived, as it appears, and I ask your pardon.”

      “And what did Monsieur d’Artagnan reply?”

      “Monsieur d’Artagnan promised me his assistance; but I soon found out that he was betraying me.”

      “You impose upon justice. Monsieur d’Artagnan made a compact with you; and in virtue of that compact put to flight the police who had arrested your wife, and has placed her beyond reach.”

      “M. d’Artagnan has abducted my wife! Come now, what are you telling me?”

      “Fortunately, Monsieur d’Artagnan is in our hands, and you shall be confronted with him.”

      “By my faith, I ask no better,” cried Bonacieux; “I shall not be sorry to see the face of an acquaintance.”

      “Bring in the Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said the commissary to the guards. The two guards led in Athos.

      “Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said the commissary, addressing Athos, “declare all that passed yesterday between you and Monsieur.”

      “But,” cried Bonacieux, “this is not Monsieur d’Artagnan whom you show me.”

      “What! Not Monsieur d’Artagnan?” exclaimed the commissary.

      “Not the least in the world,” replied Bonacieux.

      “What is this gentleman’s name?” asked the commissary.

      “I cannot tell you; I don’t know him.”

      “How! You don’t know him?”

      “No.”

      “Did you never see him?”

      “Yes, I have seen him, but I don’t know what he calls himself.”

      “Your name?” replied the commissary.

      “Athos,” replied the Musketeer.

      “But that is not a man’s name; that is the name of a mountain,” cried the poor questioner, who began to lose his head.

      “That is my name,” said Athos, quietly.

      “But you said that your name was d’Artagnan.”

      “Who, I?”

      “Yes, you.”

      “Somebody said to me, ‘You are Monsieur d’Artagnan?’ I answered, ‘You think so?’ My guards exclaimed that they were sure of it. I did not wish to contradict them; besides, I might be deceived.”

      “Monsieur, you insult the majesty of justice.”

      “Not at all,” said Athos, calmly.

      “You are Monsieur d’Artagnan.”

      “You see, monsieur, that you say it again.”

      “But I tell you, Monsieur Commissary,” cried Bonacieux, in his turn, “there is not the least doubt about the matter. Monsieur d’Artagnan is my tenant, although he does not pay me my rent—and even better on that account ought I to know him. Monsieur d’Artagnan is a young man, scarcely nineteen or twenty, and this gentleman must be thirty at least. Monsieur d’Artagnan is in Monsieur Dessessart’s Guards, and this gentleman is in the company of Monsieur de Treville’s Musketeers. Look at his uniform, Monsieur Commissary, look at his uniform!”

      “That’s true,” murmured the commissary; “PARDIEU, that’s true.”

      At this moment the door was opened quickly, and a messenger, introduced by one of the gatekeepers of the Bastille, gave a letter to the commissary.

      “Oh, unhappy woman!” cried the commissary.

      “How? What do you say? Of whom do you speak? It is not of my wife, I hope!”

      “On the contrary, it is of her. Yours is a pretty business.”

      “But,” said the agitated mercer, “do me the pleasure, monsieur, to tell me how my own proper affair can become worse by anything my wife does while I am in prison?”

      “Because that which she does is part of a plan concerted between you—of an infernal plan.”

      “I swear

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