The Three Musketeers (The Modern Library) - Alexandre Dumas [121]
Lost in charmed anticipation, D’Artagnan waited blithely for a half-hour, staring up at one part of the ceiling, which was clearly visible, admiring its gilded mouldings, and speculating how lavish the apartment might be. The belfry of Saint-Cloud sounded the half-hour.
This time quite unconsciously D’Artagnan shuddered. Perhaps he was beginning to feel the cold and mistook a wholly physical sensation for a mental impression. Suddenly he decided that he had made a mistake. Doubtless in his eagerness he had misread his instructions and his appointment was for eleven o’clock. Stealthily he drew close to the window and, thanks to a faint ray of light, managed to read his letter again. He had not been mistaken, the appointment was for ten o’clock.
By now somewhat uneasy at the silence and loneliness, he returned to his post. Eleven o’clock struck.
Now he thought fearfully that something might have happened to Madame Bonacieux. Nervously he clapped his hands three times, the usual signal of lovers, but there was no answer, not even an echo. Somewhat annoyed, he decided that his inamorata had perhaps fallen asleep while waiting for him. He approached the wall and attempted to scale it but it had been recently plastered; he could obtain no hold on it and he broke several fingernails in the effort. Looking about at a loss, he saw the trees again, shimmering in the light from the room above; perhaps by climbing the tallest of them he could look into the room. The tree offered no difficulty; after all, D’Artagnan was only twenty and his schoolboy habits were still fresh. Swift as a squirrel, he scurried from branch to branch; in a few moments his keen gaze enjoyed an unobstructed view into the lodge. The sight that greeted him sent a cold shiver through his body: he had to hug the branch on which he perched to keep himself from falling.
Straining his eyes to gaze through a perfectly transparent window, D’Artagnan was horrified at the scene he beheld. The mild, subdued light of the lamp, shining steadfastly, revealed a scene of frightful disorder. One window was broken . . . the door to the room had been forced and, smashed in, hung limply on its swollen hinges . . . a table, obviously set for supper, lay overturned, its four legs gaping . . . the floor was strewn with fragments of glass and crushed fruits. . . . There could be no doubt of it, the room had witnessed a violent, desperate struggle; D’Artagnan even thought he detected shreds of clothing amid this grotesque disorder and traces of blood on tablecloth and curtains.
Aghast, D’Artagnan climbed down from his point of vantage, his heart thumping against his ribs. He must find further clues, he must discover what had happened by examining everything about him, coolly and scrupulously as a judge. The soft light still glimmered across the cold dark shadows. Looking about him, D’Artagnan noticed that the ground underfoot seemed to have been trampled upon. There were marks of carriage wheels, of horses’ hoofs and of men’s footsteps. Obviously the carriage had driven in from the direction of Paris and, describing a circle, driven off again toward the city. Or vice-versa. At all events its wheels had left no trace in the damp earth beyond the lodge.
Pursuing his investigations, D’Artagnan suddenly came upon a glove. It lay close to the wall . . . a woman’s glove undoubtedly . . . and torn . . . its palm muddy, the top immaculate . . . the type of perfumed glove an eager lover longs to snatch from a shapely hand . . . but a glove which had been wrenched off that hand in a violent tussle. . . .
As the impact of his discoveries made itself felt, an icier and more abundant sweat broke in large beads over D’Artagnan’s forehead. A terrible