D’Artagnan, entirely overcome by this terrible story, remained motionless and mute, while all the demons of anger and jealousy were howling in his heart. “But, my good gentleman,” resumed the old man, upon whom this mute despair certainly produced a greater effect than cries and tears would have done, “do not take on so; they did not kill her, and that’s a comfort.” “Can you guess,” said D’Artagnan, “who was the man who headed this infernal expedition?” “I don’t know him.” “But as you spoke to him you must have seen him.” “Oh, it’s a description you want?” “Exactly so.” “A tall, dark man, with black mustaches, dark eyes, and the air of a gentleman.” “That’s the man!” cried D’Artagnan, “again he, forever he! He is my demon, apparently. And the other?” “Which?” “The short one.” “Oh, he was not a gentleman, I’ll answer for it; besides, he did not wear a sword, and the others treated him with small consideration.” “Some lackey,” murmured D’Artagnan. “Poor woman, poor woman, what have they done with you?” “You have promised to be secret, my good monsieur?” said the old man. “And I renew my promise. Be easy, I am a gentleman. A gentleman has but his word, and I have given you mine.” With a heavy heart, D’Artagnan again bent his way toward the ferry. Sometimes he hoped it could not be Mme. Bonacieux, and that he should find her next day at the Louvre; sometimes he feared she had had an intrigue with another, who, in a jealous fit, had surprised her and carried her off. His mind was torn by doubt, grief, and despair. “Oh, if I had my three friends here,” cried he, “I should have, at least, some hopes of finding her; but who knows what has become of them?” It was past midnight; the next thing was to find Planchet. D’Artagnan went successively into all the cabarets in which there was a light, but could not find Planchet in any of them. At the sixth he began to reflect that the search was rather dubious. D’Artagnan had appointed six o’clock in the morning for his lackey, and wherever he might be, he was right.