friends.

And M. Bonacieux? whom d'Artagnan had pushed into the hands of the
officers, denying him aloud although he had promised in a whisper to
save him. We are compelled to admit to our readers that d'Artagnan
thought nothing about him in any way; or that if he did think of him, it
was only to say to himself that he was very well where he was, wherever
it might be. Love is the most selfish of all the passions.

Let our readers reassure themselves. IF d'Artagnan forgets his host, or
appears to forget him, under the pretense of not knowing where he has
been carried, we will not forget him, and we know where he is. But for
the moment, let us do as did the amorous Gascon; we will see after the
worthy mercer later.

D'Artagnan, reflecting on his future amours, addressing himself to
the beautiful night, and smiling at the stars, ascended the Rue
Cherish-Midi, or Chase-Midi, as it was then called. As he found himself
in the quarter in which Aramis lived, he took it into his head to pay
his friend a visit in order to explain the motives which had led him
to send Planchet with a request that he would come instantly to the
mousetrap. Now, if Aramis had been at home when Planchet came to his
abode, he had doubtless hastened to the Rue des Fossoyeurs, and finding
nobody there but his other two companions perhaps, they would not
be able to conceive what all this meant. This mystery required an
explanation; at least, so d'Artagnan declared to himself.

He likewise thought this was an opportunity for talking about pretty
little Mme. Bonacieux, of whom his head, if not his heart, was already
full. We must never look for discretion in first love. First love is
accompanied by such excessive joy that unless the joy be allowed to
overflow, it will stifle you.

Paris for two hours past had been dark, and seemed a desert. Eleven
o'clock sounded from all the clocks of the Faubourg St. Germain. It
was delightful weather. D'Artagnan was passing along a lane on the spot
where the Rue d'Assas is now situated, breathing the balmy emanations
which were borne upon the wind from the Rue de Vaugirard, and which
arose from the gardens refreshed by the dews of evening and the
breeze of night. From a distance resounded, deadened, however, by good
shutters, the songs of the tipplers, enjoying themselves in the cabarets
scattered along the plain. Arrived at the end of the lane, d'Artagnan
turned to the left. The house in which Aramis dwelt was sit