While D’Artagnan was examining Mme. Bonacieux, and was, as we have said, close to her, he saw on the ground a fine cambric handkerchief, which he picked up, as was his habit, and at the corner of which he recognized the same cipher he had seen on the handkerchief which had nearly caused him and Aramis to cut each other’s throat. From that time, D’Artagnan had been cautious with respect to handkerchiefs with arms on them, and he therefore placed in the pocket of Mme. Bonacieux the one he had just picked up. At that moment Mme. Bonacieux recovered her senses. She opened her eyes, looked around her with terror, saw that the apartment was empty and that she was alone with her liberator. She extended her hands to him with a smile. Mme. Bonacieux had the sweetest smile in the world. “Ah, monsieur!” said she, “you have saved me; permit me to thank you.” “Madame,” said D’Artagnan, “I have only done what every gentleman would have done in my place; you owe me no thanks.” “Oh, yes, monsieur, oh, yes; and I hope to prove to you that you have not served an ingrate. But what could these men, whom I at first took for robbers, want with me, and why is Monsieur Bonacieux not here?” “Madame, those men were more dangerous than any robbers could have been, for they are the agents of the cardinal; and as to your husband, Monsieur Bonacieux, he is not here because he was yesterday evening conducted to the Bastille.” “My husband in the Bastille!” cried Mme. Bonacieux. “Oh, my God! What has he done? Poor dear man, he is innocence itself!” And something like a faint smile lighted the still-terrified features of the young woman. “What has he done, madame?” said D’Artagnan. “I believe that his only crime is to have at the same time the good fortune and the misfortune to be your husband.” “But, monsieur, you know then—” “I know that you have been abducted, madame.” “And by whom? Do you know him? Oh, if you know him, tell me!” “By a man of from forty to forty-five years, with black hair, a dark complexion, and a scar on his left temple.” “That is he, that is he; but his name?” “Ah, his name? I do not know that.” “And did my husband know I had been carried off?” “He was informed of it by a letter, written to him by the abductor himself.” “And does he suspect,” said Mme. Bonacieux, with some embarrassment, “the cause of this event?” “He attributed it, I believe, to a political cause.” “I doubted from the first; and now I think entirely as he does. Then my dear Monsieur Bonacieux has not suspected me a single instant?” “So far from it, madame, he was too proud of your prudence, and above all, of your love.” A second smile, almost imperceptible, stole over the rosy lips of the pretty young woman. “But,” continued D’Artagnan, “how did you escape?”