y
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 guardsman in question, therefore, was not likely to leave his
regimentals, except on an express and urgent order. The soldier, we
were saying, left the Bastile at a slow and lounging pace, like a happy
mortal, in fact, who, instead of mounting 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--both pleasures being
luckily reckoned as part of his time on duty. He bent his steps towards
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 what was to be
done. "I must, first of all," he thought, "see the fellow's face. A man
seen is a man judged." 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 common soldier would, of course, be only
too delighted at having been selected by M. de Baisemeaux as 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. "If I were in uniform," said
D'Artagnan to himself, "I would have this fellow seized, and his letter
with him. I could easily get assistance at the very first guard-house;
but the devil take me if I mention my name in an affair of this kind.
If I were to treat him to something to drink, his suspicions would be
roused; and besides, he might drink me drunk. _Mordioux!_ my wits
seem to have left me," said D'Artagnan; "it is all over with me. Yet,
supposing I were to attack this poor devil, make him draw his sword
and kill him for the sake of his lett