The reflections of the mercer were already made; he cursed the instant when M. Laporte formed the idea of marrying him to his goddaughter, and particularly the moment when that goddaughter had been received as Lady of the Linen to her Majesty. At bottom the character of M. Bonacieux was one of profound selfishness mixed with sordid avarice, the whole seasoned with extreme cowardice. The love with which his young wife had inspired him was a secondary sentiment, and was not strong enough to contend with the primitive feelings we have just enumerated. Bonacieux indeed reflected on what had just been said to him. “But, Monsieur Commissary,” said he, calmly, “believe that I know and appreciate, more than anybody, the merit of the incomparable eminence by whom we have the honor to be governed.” “Indeed?” asked the commissary, with an air of doubt. “If that is really so, how came you in the Bastille?” “How I came there, or rather why I am there,” replied Bonacieux, “that is entirely impossible for me to tell you, because I don’t know myself; but to a certainty it is not for having, knowingly at least, disobliged Monsieur the Cardinal.” “You must, nevertheless, have committed a crime, since you are here and are accused of high treason.” “Of high treason!” cried Bonacieux, terrified; “of high treason! How is it possible for a poor mercer, who detests Huguenots and who abhors Spaniards, to be accused of high treason? Consider, monsieur, the thing is absolutely impossible.” “Monsieur Bonacieux,” said the commissary, looking at the accused as if his little eyes had the faculty of reading to the very depths of hearts, “you have a wife?” “Yes, monsieur,” replied the mercer, in a tremble, feeling that it was at this point affairs were likely to become perplexing; “that is to say, I _had_ one.” “What, you ‘_had_ one’? What have you done with her, then, if you have her no longer?” “They have abducted her, monsieur.” “They have abducted her? Ah!” Bonacieux inferred from this “Ah” that the affair grew more and more intricate. “They have abducted her,” added the commissary; “and do you know the man who has committed this deed?” “I think I know him.” “Who is he?” “Remember that I affirm nothing, Monsieur the Commissary, and that I only suspect.” “Whom do you suspect? Come, answer freely.” M. Bonacieux was in the greatest perplexity possible. Had he better deny everything or tell everything? By denying all, it might be suspected that he must know too much to avow; by confessing all he might prove his good will. He decided, then, to tell all. “I suspect,” said he, “a tall, dark man, of lofty carriage, who has the air of a great lord. He has followed us several times, as I think, when I have waited for my wife at the wicket of the Louvre to escort her home.” The commissary now appeared to experience a little uneasiness. “And his name?” said he.