be done with that
poor devil of a soldier? That hot-headed, cunning fellow, De Baisemeaux,
will make him pay dearly for my trick,--if he returns without the
letter, what will they do to him? Besides, I don't want the letter;
when the egg has been sucked, what is the good of the shell?" D'Artagnan
perceived that the commissary and the archers had succeeded in
convincing the soldier, and went on their way with the prisoner,
the latter being still surrounded by the crowd, and continuing his
complaints. D'Artagnan advanced into the very middle of the crowd, let
the letter fall, without any one having observed him, and then retreated
rapidly. The soldier resumed his route towards Saint-Mande, his mind
occupied with the gentleman who had implored his protection. Suddenly
he thought of his letter, and, looking at his belt, saw that it was no
longer there. D'Artagnan derived no little satisfaction from his sudden,
terrified cry. The poor soldier in the greatest anguish of mind looked
round him on every side, and at last, about twenty paces behind him,
he perceived the lucky envelope. He pounced on it like a falcon on its
prey. The envelope was certainly a little dirty, and rather crumpled,
but at all events the letter itself was found. D'Artagnan observed that
the broken seal attracted the soldier's attention a good deal, but he
finished apparently by consoling himself, and returned the letter to his
belt. "Go on," said D'Artagnan, "I have plenty of time before me, so you
may precede me. It appears that Aramis is not in Paris, since Baisemeaux
writes to Porthos. Dear Porthos, how delighted I shall be to see him
again, and to have some conversation with him!" said the Gascon. And,
regulating his pace according to that of the soldier, he promised
himself to arrive a quarter of an hour after him at M. Fouquet's.

Chapter III. In Which the Reader will be Delighted to Find that Porthos
Has Lost Nothing of His Muscularity.

D'Artagnan had, according to his usual style, calculated that every hour
is worth sixty minutes, and every minute worth sixty seconds. Thanks to
this perfectly exact calculation of minutes and seconds, he reached the
superintendent's door at the very moment the soldier was leaving it with
his belt empty. D'Artagnan presented himself at the door, which a porter
with a profusely embroidered livery held half opened for him. D'Artagnan
would very much have liked to enter without giving his name, but this
was imp