,
so as to see every one who might leave the gates of the Bastille. After
he had spent an hour on the look-out from the "Golden Portcullis,"
under the pent-house of which he could keep himself a little in the
shade, D'Artagnan observed a soldier leave the Bastille. This was,
indeed, the surest indication he could possibly have wished for, as
every jailer or warder has certain days, and even certain hours, for
leaving the Bastille, since all are alike prohibited from having either
wives or lodgings in the castle, and can accordingly leave without
exciting any curiosity; but a soldier once in barracks is kept there for
four-and-twenty hours when on duty--and no one knew this better than
D'Artagnan. The soldier in question, therefore, was not likely to leave
in his regimentals, except on an express and urgent order. The soldier,
we were saying, left the Bastille at a slow and lounging pace, like a
happy mortal, in fact, who, instead of keeping sentry before a wearisome
guard-house, or upon a bastion no less wearisome, has the good luck to
get a little liberty in addition to a walk--the two pleasures being
reckoned as part of his time on duty. He bent his steps toward the
Faubourg Saint-Antoine, enjoying the fresh air and the warmth of the
sun, and looking at all the pretty faces he passed. D'Artagnan followed
him at a distance: he had not yet arranged his ideas as to what was to
be done. "I must, first of all," he thought, "see the fellow's face. A
man seen is a man judged of." D'Artagnan increased his pace, and, which
was not very difficult, by-the-by, soon got in advance of the soldier.
Not only did he observe that his face showed a tolerable amount of
intelligence and resolution, but he noticed also that his nose was a
little red. "He has a weakness for brandy, I see," said D'Artagnan to
himself. At the same moment that he remarked his red nose, he saw that
the soldier had a white paper in his belt.

"Good, he has a letter," added D'Artagnan. The only difficulty was to
get hold of the letter. But a soldier would, of course, be too delighted
at having been selected by M. de Baisemeaux for a special messenger, and
would not be likely to sell his message. As D'Artagnan was biting his
nails, the soldier continued to advance more and more into the Faubourg
Saint-Antoine. "He is certainly going to Saint-Mande," he said to
himself, "and I shall not be able to learn what the letter contains." It
was enough to drive him wild. "I