them; they could not
go to all; how could they guess in which those whom they were seeking
had stayed?

"Trust me," said Aramis, "do not expect to find anything in Abbeville.
If we had only been looking for Porthos, Porthos would have stationed
himself in one of the finest hotels and we could easily have traced him.
But D'Artagnan is devoid of such weaknesses. Porthos would have found it
very difficult even to make him see that he was dying of hunger; he has
gone on his road as inexorable as fate and we must seek him somewhere
else."

They continued their route. It had now become a weary and almost
hopeless task, and had it not been for the threefold motives of honor,
friendship and gratitude, implanted in their hearts, our two travelers
would have given up many a time their rides over the sand, their
interrogatories of the peasantry and their close inspection of faces.

They proceeded thus to Peronne.

Athos began to despair. His noble nature felt that their ignorance was
a sort of reflection upon them. They had not looked carefully enough for
their lost friends. They had not shown sufficient pertinacity in their
inquiries. They were willing and ready to retrace their steps, when, in
crossing the suburb which leads to the gates of the town, upon a white
wall which was at the corner of a street turning around the rampart,
Athos cast his eyes upon a drawing in black chalk, which represented,
with the awkwardness of a first attempt, two cavaliers riding furiously;
one of them carried a roll of paper on which were written these words:
"They are following us."

"Oh!" exclaimed Athos, "here it is, as clear as day; pursued as he was,
D'Artagnan would not have tarried here five minutes had he been pressed
very closely, which gives us hopes that he may have succeeded in
escaping."

Aramis shook his head.

"Had he escaped we should either have seen him or have heard him spoken
of."

"You are right, Aramis, let us travel on."

To describe the impatience and anxiety of these two friends would be
impossible. Uneasiness took possession of the tender, constant heart of
Athos, and fearful forecasts were the torment of the impulsive Aramis.
They galloped on for two or three hours as furiously as the cavaliers
on the wall. All at once, in a narrow pass, they perceived that the road
was partially barricaded by an enormous stone. It had evidently been
rolled across the pass by some arm of giant strength.

Aramis stopped.