Chapter 51

Chapter LI:
Bragelonne Continues His Inquiries.

The captain, sitting buried in his leathern armchair, his spurs fixed in
the floor, his sword between his legs, was reading a number of letters,
as he twisted his mustache. D'Artagnan uttered a welcome full of
pleasure when he perceived his friend's son. "Raoul, my boy, " he said,
"by what lucky accident does it happen that the king has recalled you?"

These words did not sound agreeably in the young man's ears, who, as he
seated himself, replied, "Upon my word I cannot tell you; all that I know
is - I have come back."

"Hum!" said D'Artagnan, folding up his letters and directing a look full
of meaning at him; "what do you say, my boy? that the king has not
recalled you, and you have returned? I do not understand that at all."

Raoul was already pale enough; and he now began to turn his hat round and
round in his hand.

"What the deuce is the matter that you look as you do, and what makes you
so dumb?" said the captain. "Do people nowadays assume that sort of airs
in England? I have been in England, and came here again as lively as a
chaffinch. Will you not say something?"

"I have too much to say."

"Ah! how is your father?"

"Forgive me, my dear friend, I was going to ask you that."

D'Artagnan increased the sharpness of his penetrating gaze, which no
secret was capable of resisting. "You are unhappy about something," he
said.

"I am, indeed; and you know the reason very well, Monsieur d'Artagnan."

"I?"

"Of course. Nay, do not pretend to be astonished."

"I am not pretending to be astonished, my friend."

"Dear captain, I know very well that in all trials of _finesse_, as well
as in all trials of strength, I shall be beaten by you. You can see that
at the present moment I am an idiot, an absolute noodle. I have neither
head nor arm; do not despise, but help me. In two words, I am the most
wretched of living beings."

"Oh, oh! why that?" inquired D'Artagnan, unbuckling his belt and thawing
the asperity of his smile.

"Because Mademoiselle de la Valliere is deceiving me."

"She is deceiving you," said D'Artagnan, not a muscle of whose face had
moved; "those are big words. Who makes use of them?"

"Every one."

"Ah! if every one says so, there must be some truth in it. I begin to
believe there is fire when I see smoke. It is ridiculous, perhaps, but
it is so."

"Therefore you _do_ believe me?" exclaimed Bragelonne, quickly.

"I never mix myself up in affairs of that kind; you know that very well."

"What! not for a friend, for a son!"

"Exactly. If you were a stranger, I should tell you - I will tell _you_
nothing at all. How is