M. de Tréville was surprised to the greatest degree. So much penetration, so much frankness, created admiration, but did not entirely remove his suspicions. The more this young man was superior to others, the more he was to be dreaded if he meant to deceive him. Nevertheless, he pressed D’Artagnan’s hand, and said to him: “You are an honest youth; but at the present moment I can only do for you that which I just now offered. My hôtel will be always open to you. Hereafter, being able to ask for me at all hours, and consequently to take advantage of all opportunities, you will probably obtain that which you desire.” “That is to say,” replied D’Artagnan, “that you will wait until I have proved myself worthy of it. Well, be assured,” added he, with the familiarity of a Gascon, “you shall not wait long.” And he bowed in order to retire, and as if he considered the future in his own hands. “But wait a minute,” said M. de Tréville, stopping him. “I promised you a letter for the director of the Academy. Are you too proud to accept it, young gentleman?” “No, sir,” said D’Artagnan; “and I will guard it so carefully that I will be sworn it shall arrive at its address, and woe be to him who shall attempt to take it from me!” M. de Tréville smiled at this flourish; and leaving his young man compatriot in the embrasure of the window, where they had talked together, he seated himself at a table in order to write the promised letter of recommendation. While he was doing this, D’Artagnan, having no better employment, amused himself with beating a march upon the window and with looking at the Musketeers, who went away, one after another, following them with his eyes until they disappeared. M. de Tréville, after having written the letter, sealed it, and rising, approached the young man in order to give it to him. But at the very moment when D’Artagnan stretched out his hand to receive it, M. de Tréville was highly astonished to see his _protégé_ make a sudden spring, become crimson with passion, and rush from the cabinet crying, “S’blood, he shall not escape me this time!” “And who?” asked M. de Tréville. “He, my thief!” replied D’Artagnan. “Ah, the traitor!” and he disappeared. “The devil take the madman!” murmured M. de Tréville, “unless,” added he, “this is a cunning mode of escaping, seeing that he had failed in his purpose!” Chapter IV. THE SHOULDER OF ATHOS, THE BALDRIC OF PORTHOS AND THE HANDKERCHIEF OF ARAMIS D’Artagnan, in a state of fury, crossed the antechamber at three bounds, and was darting toward the stairs, which he reckoned upon descending four at a time, when, in his heedless course, he ran head foremost against a Musketeer who was coming out of one of M. de Tréville’s private rooms, and striking his shoulder violently, made him utter a cry, or rather a howl. “Excuse me,” said D’Artagnan, endeavoring to resume his course, “excuse me, but I am in a hurry.”