Chapter XXXIV.

Among Women.
D'Artagnan had not been able to hide his feelings from his friends so much as he would have wished.

The stoical soldier, the impassive man-at-arms, overcome by fear and sad presentiments, had yielded, for a few moments, to human weakness.

When, therefore, he had silenced his heart and calmed the agitation of his nerves, turning towards his lackey, a silent servant, always listening, in order to obey the more promptly: "Rabaud," said he, "mind, we must travel thirty leagues a day." "At your pleasure, captain," replied Rabaud.
And from that moment, D'Artagnan, accommodating his action to the pace of the horse, like a true centaur, gave up his thoughts to nothing--that is to say, to everything.

He asked himself why the king had sent for him back; why the Iron Mask had thrown the silver plate at the feet of Raoul.