Porthos rose; and but just in time, for the chair had given way several inches. Saint-Aignan looked about him for something more solid for his guest to sit upon.
“Modern articles of furniture,” said Porthos, while the comte was looking about, “are constructed in a ridiculously flimsy manner. In my early days, when I used to sit down with far more energy than is now the case, I do not remember ever to have broken a chair, except in taverns, with my arms.”
Saint-Aignan smiled at this remark. “But,” said Porthos, as he settled himself down on a couch, which creaked, but did not give way beneath his weight, “that unfortunately has nothing whatever to do with my present visit.”
“Why unfortunately? Are you the bearer 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 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 Laferté, and a letter from M. de las Fuentès.”
“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—”
“Out with it!”
“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. “Aha!” he said.
“A note in the keyhole!” exclaimed Saint-Aignan.
“That is not unlikely to be the missing letter, Monsieur le Comte,” said Porthos.
Saint-Aignan took out the paper. “A note from M. de Bragelonne!” he exclaimed.
“You see, Monsieur, I was right. Oh, when I say a thing—”
“Brought here by M. de Bragelonne himself,” the comte murmured, turning pale. “This is infamous! How could he possibly have come here?” And the comte rang again.
“Who has been here during my absence with the king?”
“No one, Monsieur.”
“That is impossible! Someone must have been here.”
“No one could possibly have entered, Monsieur, since the keys have never left my pocket.”
“And yet I find the letter in yonder lock; someone must have put it there; it could not have come here of its own accord.”
Basque opened his arms as if signifying the most absolute ignorance on the subject.
“Probably it was M. de Bragelonne himself who placed it there,” said Porthos.
“In that case he must have entered here.”
“How could that have been, since I have the key in my own pocket?” returned Basque, perseveringly.
Saint-Aignan crumpled the letter in his palm, after having read it. “There is something mysterious about this,” he murmured, absorbed in thought. Porthos left him to his reflections; but after a while returned to the mission he had undertaken.
“Shall we return to our little affair?” Porthos resumed, addressing Saint-Aignan after a brief pause.
“I think I can now understand it, from this note, which has arrived here in so singular a manner. Monsieur de Bragelonne says that a friend will call.”
“I am his friend. I am the person he alludes to.”
“For the purpose of giving me a challenge?”
“Precisely.”
“And he complains that I have insulted him?”
“Mortally.”
“In what way, may I ask; for his conduct is so mysterious, that, at least, it needs some explanation?”
“Monsieur,” replied Porthos, “my friend cannot but be right; and, as far as his conduct is concerned, if it be mysterious, as you say, you have only yourself to blame for it.” Porthos pronounced these words with an amount of confidence which, for a man who was unaccustomed to his ways, must have revealed an infinity of sense.
“Mystery, so be it; but what is all the mystery about?” said Saint-Aignan.
“You will think it the best, perhaps,” Porthos replied, with a low bow, “if I do not enter in to particulars.”
“Oh, I perfectly understand. We will touch very lightly upon it, then, so speak, Monsieur, I am listening.”
“In the first place, Monsieur,” said Porthos, “you have changed your apartments.”
“Yes, that is quite true,” said Saint-Aignan.
“You admit it,” said Porthos, with an air of satisfaction.
“Admit it! of course I admit it. Why should I not admit it, do you suppose?”
“You have admitted it. Very good,” said Porthos, lifting up one finger.
“But how can my having moved my lodgings have done M. de Bragelonne any harm? Have the
