er of a message of ill omen,
Monsieur le Baron?"

"Of ill omen--for a gentleman? Certainly not, Monsieur le Comte,"
replied Porthos, nobly. "I have simply come to say that you have
seriously insulted a friend of mine."

"I, monsieur?" exclaimed Saint-Aignan--"I have insulted a friend of
yours, do you say? May I ask his name?"

"M. Raoul de Bragelonne."

"I have insulted M. Raoul de Bragelonne!" cried Saint-Aignan. "I really
assure you, monsieur, that it is quite impossible; for M. de Bragelonne,
whom I know but very slightly--nay, whom I know hardly at all--is in
England; and, as I have not seen him for a long time past, I cannot
possibly have insulted him."

"M. de Bragelonne is in Paris, Monsieur le Comte," said Porthos,
perfectly unmoved; "and I repeat, it is quite certain you have insulted
him, since he himself told me you had. Yes, monsieur, you have seriously
insulted him, mortally insulted him, I repeat."

"It is impossible. Monsieur le Baron, I swear, quite impossible."

"Besides," added Porthos, "you cannot be ignorant of the circumstance
since M. de Bragelonne informed me that he had already apprised you of
it by a note."

"I give you my word of honor, monsieur, that I have received no note
whatever."

"This is most extraordinary," replied Porthos.

"I will convince you," said Saint-Aignan, "that I have received nothing
in any way from him." And he rang the bell. "Basque," he said to the
servant who entered, "how many letters or notes were sent here during my
absence?"

"Three, Monsieur le Comte--a note from M. de Fiesque, one from Madame de
Laferte, and a letter from M. de las Fuentes."

"Is that all?"

"Yes, Monsieur le Comte."

"Speak the truth before this gentleman--the truth, you understand. I
will take care you are not blamed."

"There was a note, also, from--from--"

"Well, from whom?"

"From Mademoiselle de Laval--"

"That is quite sufficient," interrupted Porthos. "I believe you,
Monsieur le Comte."

Saint-Aignan dismissed the valet, and followed him to the door, in order
to close it after him; and when he had done so, looking straight before
him, he happened to see in the keyhole of the adjoining apartment the
paper which Bragelonne had slipped in there as he left. "What is this?"
he said.

Porthos, who was sitting with his back to the room, turned round, "Oh,
oh!" he said.

"A note in the keyhole!" exclaimed Saint-Aignan.

"That is not unlikely to be the one we want,