On the first Monday of the month of April， 1625， the bourg of Meung， in which the author of the Romance of the Rose was born， appeared to be in as perfect a state of revolution as if the Huguenots had just made a second Rochelle of it. Many citizens， seeing the women flying towards the High Street， leaving their children crying at the open doors， hastened to don the cuirass， and， supporting their somewhat uncertain courage with a musket or a partizan， directed their steps towards the hostelry of the Franc Meunier， before which was gathered， increasing every minute， a compact group， vociferous and full of curiosity.

In those times panics were common， and few days passed without some city or other enregistered in its archives an event of this kind. There were nobles， who made war against one another； there was the king， who made war against the cardinal； there was Spain， who made war against the king. Then in addition to these concealed or public， secret or patent wars， there were robbers， mendicants， Huguenots， wolves， and scoundrels， who made war upon everybody. The citizens always took up arms against thieves， wolves， or scoundrels， often against nobles or Huguenots， sometimes against the king， but never against the cardinal or Spain. It resulted， therefore， from this habit， that on the said first Monday of the month of April， 1625， the citizens， on hearing the clamour， and seeing neither the red and yellow standard nor the livery of the Duc de Richelieu， rushed toward the hostelry of the Franc-Meunier.

On reaching there the cause of this hubbub was apparent to all.

A young man—we can sketch his portrait at a dash： imagine Don Quixote at eighteen； Don Quixote without his corselet， without his coat of mail， without his cuisses； Don Quixote clothed in a woollen doublet the blue colour of which had faded into a nameless shade between lees of wine and a heavenly azure； face long and brown； high cheekbones， indicating craftiness； the maxillary muscles enormously developed， an infallible sign by which a Gascon may always be detected， even without his cap—and our young man wore a cap ornamented with a kind of feather； his eye open and intelligent； his nose hooked， but finely chiselled. Too big for a youth， too small for a grown man， an experienced eye might have taken him for a farmer’s son upon a journey had it not been for the long sword， which， dangling from a leathern baldic， hit against its owner’s calves as he walked， and against his steed’s rough side when he was on horseback.

For our young man had a steed， which was the observed of all observers. It was a Béarn pony， from twelve to fourteen years old， with yellow coat， not a hair in his tail， but not without wind-galls on his legs， which， though going with his head lower than his knees， rendering a martingale quite unnecessary， contrived， nevertheless. to perform his eight leagues a day.

And this feeling was the more painful to young D’Artagnan—for so was the Don Quixote of this second Rosinante named—because he was conscious himself of the ridiculous appearance he made on such a steed， good horseman as he was. He had sighed deeply， therefore， when accepting the gift of the pony from M. d’Artagnan the elder. He was not ignorant that such a beast was worth at least twenty pounds； and the words which accompanied the gift were above all price.

“My son，” said the old Gascon nobleman， in that pure Béarn patois of which Henry IV was never able to rid himself—“my son， this horse was born in your father’s house about thirteen years ago， and has remained in it ever since， which ought to make you love it. Never sell it—allow it to die tranquilly and honourably of old age； and if you make a campaign with it， take as much care of it as you would of an old servant. At court， provided you ever have the honour to go there，” continued M. d’Artagnan the elder， “an honour to which， remember， your ancient nobility gives you the right， sustain worthily your name of gentleman， which has been worthily borne by your ancestors for more than five hundred years， both for your own sake and for those who belong to you. By the latter I mean your relatives and friends. Endure nothing from any one except the cardinal and the king. It is by his courage， you understand， by his courage alone， that a gentleman makes his way to-day. I have but one more word to add， and that is to propose an example to you—not mine， for I myself have never appeared at court， and have only taken part in religious wars as a volunteer； I speak of M. de Tréville， who was formerly my neighbour， and who had the honour to be， as a child， the playfellow of our king， Louis XIII， whom God preserve！ Sometimes their play degenerated into battles， and in these battles the king was not always the stronger. The blows which he received from him caused him to entertain great esteem and friendship for M. de Tréville. Afterwards， M. de Tréville fought with others： during his first journey to Paris， five times； from the death of the late king to the majority of the young one， without reckoning wars and sieges， seven times； and from that majority up to the present day， a hundred times perhaps！ So that in spite of edicts， ordinances， and decrees， behold him captain of the musketeers—that is to say， leader of a legion of C？sars， whom the king holds in great esteem， and whom the cardinal dreads—he who dreads little， as every one knows. Moreover， M. de Tréville gains ten thousand crowns a year； he is， therefore， a very great noble. He began as you begin； go to him with this letter， and make him your model， in order that you may do as he has done.”

The same day the young man set forward on his journey， provided with the three paternal gifts， which consisted， as we have said， of fifteen crowns， the horse， and the letter for M. de Tréville， the counsels， as may be supposed， being thrown into the bargain.

As he was alighting from his horse at the gate of the Franc-Meunier， without any one—host， waiter， or hostler—coming to hold his stirrup or take his horse， D’Artagnan spied， through an open window on the ground floor， a man of fine figure and lofty bearing， but of rather grim countenance， talking with two persons who appeared to listen to him most respectfully. D’Artagnan fancied， as was natural for him to do， that he himself must be the object of their conversation， and listened. D’Artagnan was only in part mistaken： he himself was not the subject of remark， but his horse was.

Nevertheless， D’Artagnan was desirous of examining the appearance of this impertinent personage who was laughing at him. He fixed his haughty eye upon the stranger， and perceived a man of from forty to forty-five years of age， with black and piercing eyes， a pale complexion， a strongly-marked nose， and a black and well-shaped moustache. He was dressed in a doublet and hose of violet colour， with aiguillettes of the same， without any other ornaments than the customary slashes through which the shirt appeared. This doublet and hose， though new， look creased， as garments do which have been long packed in a travelling-bag. D’Artagnan noticed all this with the rapidity of a most minute observer， and doubtless from an instinctive feeling that this unknown was destined to have a great influence over his future life.

Now， as at the moment in which D’Artagnan fixed his eyes upon the man in the violet doublet the man made one of his most knowing and profound remarks respecting the Béarnese pony， his two auditors burst out laughing， and he himself， though contrary to his custom suffered a pale smile (if I may be allowed to use such an expression) to stray over his countenance. This time there could be no doubt： D’Artagnan was really insulted. Full， then， of his conviction， he pulled his cap down over his eyes， and endeavouring to copy some of the court airs he had picked up in Gascony among young travelling nobles， he advanced， with one hand on the hilt of his sword and the other resting on his hip.

“I say， sir—you， sir， who are hiding yourself behind that shutter—yes， you， sir， tell me what you are laughing at， and we will laugh together！”

The man withdrew his eyes slowly from the nag to his rider， as if he required some time to ascertain whether it could be to him that such strange reproaches were addressed； then， when he could no longer entertain any doubt of the matter， his eyebrows bent slightly， and after quite a long pause， with an accent of irony and insolence impossible to be described， he replied to D’Artagnan，

“I was not speaking to you， sir！”

“But I am speaking to you！” replied the young man， exasperated by this mixture of insolence and good manners， of politeness and scorn.

The unknown looked at him for a moment longer with his faint smile， and retiring from the window， came out of the hostelry with a slow step， and placed himself before the horse within two paces of D’Artagnan.

“This horse is decidedly， or rather has been in his youth， a buttercup，” resumed the unknown， continuing the remarks he had begun， and addressing himself to his auditors at the window， without seeming in any way to notice the exasperation of D’Artagnan， who， however， remained stiffly standing between them. “It is a colour very well known in botany， but till the present time very rare among horses.”

He had scarcely finished when D’Artagnan made such a furious lunge at him that if he had not sprung nimbly backward it is possible that he would have jested for the last time. The unknown then， perceiving that the matter was going beyond a joke， drew his sword， saluted his adversary， and gravely placed himself on guard. But at the same moment his two auditors， accompanied by the host， fell upon D’Artagnan with sticks， shovels， and tongs. This caused so rapid and complete a diversion to the attack that D’Artagnan’s adversary， while the latter was turning round to face this shower of blows， sheathed his sword with the same precision as before， and from an actor， which he had nearly been， became a spectator of the fight， a r？le in which he acquitted himself with his usual impassibility， muttering， nevertheless，

“A plague upon these Gascons！ Put him on his yellow horse again and let him begone！”

“Not before I have killed you， poltroon！” cried D’Artagnan， showing the best front possible， and never falling back one step before his three assailants， who continued to shower their blows upon him.

“Another gasconade！” murmured the gentleman. “By my honour， these Gascons are incorrigible！ Keep up the dance， then， since he will have it so. When he is tired， he will say that he has enough of it.”

But the unknown did not yet know the headstrong personage he had to deal with； D’Artagnan was not the man ever to cry for quarter. The fight was therefore prolonged for some seconds； but at length D’Artagnan， worn out， let fall his sword， which was struck from his hand by the blow of a stick and broken in two pieces. Another blow full upon his forehead at the same moment brought him to the ground， covered with blood and almost fainting.

It was at this period that people came flocking to the scene of action from all sides. The host， fearful of consequences， with the help of his servants carried the wounded man into the kitchen， where some trifling attention was bestowed upon him.

As to the gentleman， he resumed his place at the window， and surveyed all that crowd with a certain air of impatience， evidently much annoyed by their persistence in remaining there.

“Well， how is it with this madman？” exclaimed he， turning round as the opening door announced the entrance of the host， who came to inquire whether he was hurt.

“Your excellency is safe and sound？” asked the host.

“Oh yes！ perfectly safe and sound， my good host； and I now wish to know what has become of our young man.”

“He is better，” said the host； “he fainted quite away.”

“Indeed！” said the gentleman.

“But before he fainted he collected all his strength to challenge you， and to defy you while challenging you.”

“Why， this fellow must be the devil in person！” cried the unknown.

“Oh no， your Excellency，” replied the host， with a grin of contempt， “he is not the devil； for during his fainting we rummaged his valise， and found nothing but a clean shirt and twelve crowns， which， however， did not prevent his saying， as he was fainting， that if such a thing had happened in Paris you should have instantly repented of it， while here you will only repent of it later on.”

“Then，” said the unknown coldly， “he must be some prince of the blood in disguise.”

“I have told you this， good sir，” resumed the host， “in order that you may be on your guard.”

“Did he name no one in his passion？”

“Yes. He struck his pocket and said， ‘We shall see what M. de Tréville will think of this insult offered to his protégé.’ ”

“M. de Tréville？” said the unknown， becoming attentive. “He struck his pocket while pronouncing the name of M. de Tréville？ Now， my dear host， while your young man was unconscious you did not fail， I am quite sure， to ascertain what that pocket contained. What was there in it？”

“A letter addressed to M. de Tréville， captain of the musketeers.”

“Indeed！”

“Just as I have the honour to tell your Excellency.”

The host， who was not endowed with great perspicacity， did not notice at all the expression which his words called up in the countenance of the unknown. The latter arose from the window， upon the sill of which he had been leaning his elbow， and knitted his brows like a man suddenly disturbed.

“The devil！” muttered he between his teeth. “Can Tréville have set this Gascon upon me？ He is very young， but a sword-thrust is a sword-thrust， whatever be the age of him who gives it， and a youth is less to be suspected than an older man. A weak obstacle is sometimes sufficient to overthrow a great design.”

And the unknown fell into a reverie which lasted some minutes.

“Host，” said he， “could you not contrive to get rid of this frantic boy for me？ In conscience， I cannot kill him； and yet，” added he， with a coldly menacing expression—“and yet he annoys me. Where is he？”

“In my wife’s chamber， where they are dressing his wounds， on the first floor.”

“His things and his bag are with him？ Has he taken off his doublet？”

“On the contrary， everything is down in the kitchen. But if he annoys you， this crazy young fool—”

“To be sure he does. He causes a disturbance in your hostelry， which respectable people cannot put up with. Go， make out my bill， and call my servant.”

“What， sir！ do you mean to leave us already？”

“You knew I was going， as I ordered you to get my horse saddled. Have they not obeyed？”

“Yes， sir； and as your Excellency may have observed， your horse is in the great gateway， ready saddled for your departure.”

“That is well. Do as I have directed you， then.”

“What the devil！” said the host to himself. “Can he be afraid of this boy？” But an imperious glance from the unknown stopped him short； he bowed humbly and retired.

“Milady must see nothing of this fellow，” continued the stranger. “She will soon pass by； she is already late. I had better get on horseback， and go and meet her. I should like， however， to know what this letter addressed to Tréville contains.”

And the unknown， muttering to himself， directed his steps towards the kitchen.

In the meantime the host， who entertained no doubt that it was the presence of the young man which was driving the unknown from his hostelry， had gone up to his wife’s chamber， and found D’Artagnan entirely returned to consciousness. Giving him to understand that the police could deal with him pretty severely for having sought a quarrel with a great lord (for in the opinion of the host the unknown could be nothing less than a great lord)， he insisted that， notwithstanding his weakness， he should get up and depart as quickly as possible. D’Artagnan， half-stupefied， without his doublet， and with his head all swathed with bandages， arose then， and urged on by the host， began to descend the stairs； but on arriving at the kitchen the first thing he saw was his antagonist， who stood quietly talking beside the step of a heavy carriage drawn by two large Norman horses.

His interlocutor， whose head appeared through the carriage window， was a woman of from twenty to two-and-twenty years of age. We have already observed with what rapidity D’Artagnan took in every feature of a face. He perceived then， at a glance， that this woman was young and beautiful； and her style of beauty struck him the more forcibly on account of its being totally different from that of the southern countries in which D’Artagnan had hitherto resided. She was pale and fair， with long curls falling in profusion over her shoulders； had large languishing blue eyes， rosy lips， and hands of alabaster. She was talking with great animation with the unknown.

“His eminence， then， orders me—” said the lady.

“To return instantly to England， and to inform him immediately should the duke leave London.”

“And my other instructions？” asked the fair traveller.