And without waiting until the newcomer should himself respond to this proof of affection， M. de Tréville seized his right hand， and pressed it with all his might， without perceiving that Athos， whatever might be his self-command， allowed a slight murmur of pain to escape him， and， if possible， grew paler than he was before.
The door had remained open， so strong was the excitement produced by the arrival of Athos， whose wound， though kept as secret as possible， was known to all. A loud murmur of satisfaction hailed the last words of the captain， and two or three persons， carried away by the enthusiasm of the moment， appeared through the openings of the tapestry. Doubtless M. de Tréville was about to reprehend severely this infringement on the rules of etiquette， when he suddenly felt the hand of Athos contract within his， and upon turning his eyes towards him， perceived he was about to faint. At the same instant Athos， who had rallied all his energies to contend against pain， at length overcome by it， fell upon the floor as if he was dead.
Immediately M. de Tréville opened the door and pointed the way to Porthos and Aramis， who carried off their comrade in their arms.
When all had gone out and the door closed， M. de Tréville， on turning round， found himself alone with the young man. The stirring event which had just taken place had in some degree broken the thread of his ideas. He inquired what was the desire of his persevering visitor. D’Artagnan then repeated his name， and in an instant， recalling his memory of the past and the present， M. de Tréville was in possession of the situation.
“Pardon me，” said he， smiling—“pardon me， my dear compatriot， but I had entirely forgotten you. But what help is there for it？ A captain is nothing but a father of a family， charged with even a greater responsibility than the father of an ordinary family. Soldiers are big children； but I maintain that the orders of the king， and more particularly the orders of the cardinal， should be executed—”
D’Artagnan could not restrain a smile. By this smile M. de Tréville judged that he had not to deal with a fool， and changing the subject， came straight to the point.
“I loved your father very much，” said he. “What can I do for the son？ Tell me quickly—my time is not my own.”
“Sir，” said D’Artagnan， “on leaving Tarbes and coming hither， it was my intention to request of you， in remembrance of the friendship which you have not forgotten， the uniform of a musketeer. But after all that I have seen during the last two hours， I have become aware of the value of such a favour， and tremble lest I should not merit it.”
“Well， young man，” replied M. de Tréville， “it is， in fact， a favour， but it may not be so far beyond your hopes as you believe， or rather as you appear to believe. Yet his Majesty’s decision is always necessary， and I inform you with regret that no one becomes a musketeer without the preliminary ordeal of several campaigns， certain brilliant actions， or a service of two years in some regiment less favoured than ours.”
D’Artagnan bowed without replying， feeling his desire to don the musketeer’s uniform vastly increased by the difficulties which he had learned must precede the attainment of it.
“But，” continued M. de Tréville， fixing upon his compatriot a look so piercing that it might be said he wished to read the thoughts of his heart—“but on account of my old companion， your father， as I have said， I will do something for you， young man. I will write a letter to-day to the director of the Royal Academy， and to-morrow he will admit you without any expense to yourself. Do not refuse this little service. Our best-born and richest gentlemen sometimes solicit it without being able to obtain it. You will learn riding， swordsmanship in all its branches， and dancing. You will make some desirable acquaintances， and from time to time you can call upon me， just to tell me how you are getting on， and to say whether I can be of any service to you.”
D’Artagnan， stranger as he was to all the manners of a court， could not but perceive a little coldness in this reception.
“Alas， sir，” said he， “I can but perceive how sadly I miss the letter of introduction which my father gave me to present to you.”
“I certainly am surprised，” replied M. de Tréville， “that you should undertake so long a journey without that necessary viaticum， the only resource of us poor Béarnese.”“I had one， sir， and， thank God， such as I could wish，” cried D’Artagnan， “but it was perfidiously stolen from me.”
He then related the adventure at Meung， described the unknown gentleman with the greatest minuteness， and all with a warmth and truthfulness that delighted M. de Tréville.
“This is all very strange，” said the latter， after meditating a minute. “You mentioned my name， then， aloud？”
“Yes， sir； I certainly committed that imprudence. But why should I have done otherwise？ A name like yours was to serve me as a buckler on my way. You can fancy whether I often hid myself behind it or no！”
Flattery was at that period very much in fashion， and M. de Tréville loved incense as well as a king， or even a cardinal. He could not then refrain from a smile of evident satisfaction； but this smile soon disappeared， and returning to the adventure at Meung，
“Tell me，” continued he， “had not this gentleman a slight scar on his cheek？”
“Yes， such a one as would be made by the grazing of a ball.”
“Was he not a fine-looking man？”
“Yes.”
“Of lofty stature？”
“Yes.”
“Of pale complexion and brown hair？”
“Yes， yes， that is he！ How is it， sir， that you are acquainted with this man？ If ever I should meet him again， and I will find him， I swear， were it in hell—”
“He was waiting for a woman？” continued Tréville.
“He at least departed immediately after having conversed for a minute with the one for whom he was waiting.”
“You do not know what was the subject of their conversation？”
“He gave her a box， told her that box contained her instructions， and desired her not to open it before she arrived in London.”
“Was this an Englishwoman？”
“He called her Milady.”
