Porthos rose; and but just in time, for the chair had given way several inches. De Saint-Aignan looked about him for something more solid for his guest to sit upon.
“Modern articles of furniture,” said Porthos, while the count was looking about, “are constructed in a ridiculously light manner. In my early days, when I used to sit down with far more energy than now, I do not remember ever to have broken a chair, except in taverns, with my arms.” De Saint-Aignan smiled at this remark. “But,” said Porthos, as he settled himself on a couch, which creaked but did not give way beneath his weight, “that unfortunately has nothing whatever to do with my present visit.”
“Why unfortunately? Are you the bearer of a message of ill omen, Monsieur the Baron?”
“Of ill omen,- for a gentleman? Certainly not, Monsieur the Count,” replied Porthos, nobly. “I have simply come to say that you have seriously offended a friend of mine.”
“I, Monsieur?” exclaimed De Saint-Aignan,- “I have offended a friend of yours, do you say? May I ask his name?”
“M. Raoul de Bragelonne.”
“I have offended M. Raoul de Bragelonne!” cried De Saint-Aignan. “I really assure you, Monsieur, that it is quite impossible; for M. de Bragelonne, whom I know but very slightly,- nay, whom I know hardly at all,- is in England; and as I have not seen him for a long time past, I cannot possibly have offended him.”
“M. de Bragelonne is in Paris, Monsieur the Count,” said Porthos, perfectly unmoved; “and I repeat, it is quite certain you have offended him, since he himself told me you had. Yes, Monsieur, you have seriously offended him, mortally offended him, I repeat.”
“It is impossible, Monsieur the Baron, I swear,- quite impossible.”
“Besides,” added Porthos, “you cannot be ignorant of the circumstance, since M. de Bragelonne informed me that he had already apprised you of it by a note.”
“I give you my word of honor, Monsieur, that I have received no note whatever.”
“This is most extraordinary,” replied Porthos.
“I will convince you,” said De Saint-Aignan, “that I have received nothing in any way from him”; and he rang the bell. “Basque,” he said to the servant who entered, “how many letters or notes were sent here during my absence?”
“Three, Monsieur the Count,- a note from M. de Fiesque, one from Madame de Laferte, and a letter from M. de las Fuentes.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes, Monsieur the Count.”
“Speak the truth before this gentleman,- the truth, you understand! I will take care you are not blamed.”
“There was a note, also, from- from-”
“Well, from whom?”
“From Mademoiselle de la Val-”
“That is quite sufficient,” interrupted Porthos. “I believe you, Monsieur the Count.”
De Saint-Aignan dismissed the valet and followed him to the door in order to close it after him; and when he had done so, looking straight before him, he happened to see in the keyhole of the adjoining apartment the paper which Bragelonne had slipped in there as he left. “What is this?” he said.
Porthos, who was sitting with his back to the room, turned round. “Oh, oh!” he said.
“A note in the keyhole!” exclaimed De Saint-Aignan.
“That is not unlikely to be the one we want, Monsieur the Count,” said Porthos.
De Saint-Aignan took out the paper. “A note from M. de Bragelonne!” he exclaimed.
“You see, Monsieur, I was right. Oh, when I say a thing-”
“Brought here by M. de Bragelonne himself,” the count murmured, turning pale. “This is infamous! How could he possibly have come here?” and the count rang again.
“Who has been here during my absence with the King?”
“No one, Monsieur.”
“That is impossible. Some one must have been here.”
“No one could possibly have entered, Monsieur; since I kept the keys in my own pocket.”
“And yet I find this letter in that lock yonder. Some one must have put it there; it could not have come alone.”
Basque opened his arms, as if signifying the most absolute ignorance on the subject.
“Probably it was M. de Bragelonne himself who placed it there,” said Porthos.
“In that case he must have entered here.”