D'Artagnan does not go home first. He runs up Tréville's stairs and tells the whole story of Constance Bonacieux. Tréville hears more than a love affair. He says the thing savours of the cardinal a league off. For now there is nothing to do but leave Paris. He will see the queen about the missing woman and may have news when D'Artagnan returns. D'Artagnan trusts that promise, because Tréville does not make them lightly. On the Rue des Fossoyeurs he finds M. Bonacieux on the threshold in morning clothes. Planchet's warning comes back. The mercer's smile looks like a mask. Their boots share the same mud. The little stout man in dark clothes who rode with the escort was the husband. D'Artagnan wants to seize his throat and does not. He asks for a glass of water, walks in, and sees the bed unused. Bonacieux names St. Mandé, which lies the other way from St. Cloud. Upstairs Planchet is in a fright. M. de Cavois, captain of the cardinal's Guards, has just called with honeyed words and an invitation to the Palais-Royal. Planchet said his master left last night for Troyes in Champagne. The lie can sit on a lackey's door, he says, because he is not a gentleman. They will ride the opposite way.
They pack and leave separately, one by the Barrière de la Villette and one by Montmartre, and meet beyond St. Denis. D'Artagnan has taken a scented letter that arrived for Aramis. Four horses go with them, so three friends can ride home if they are still alive. At Chantilly they stop at the Great St. Martin, the same inn as the first journey. D'Artagnan does not ask for Porthos at once. He orders the best wine and breakfast, pours the host a glass, and toasts the house. Only then does he mention a Musketeer who quarrelled here ten days ago. The host names Porthos. The big man is still upstairs. He has run up a bill. He lost at lansquenet to a travelling gentleman, even the horse. When the inn asked for money or a cheaper room, he laid a pistol on the table and swore to blow out the brains of anyone who mentioned a move. Mousqueton came back five days later, in a bad state, and now forages without asking.
The host, pressed, tells more. He opened a letter Porthos meant for his duchess and had a lad take it to Paris. The great lady is Madame Coquenard, wife of a procurator of the Châtelet, at least fifty, living in the Rue aux Ours. She flew into a passion and sent no money. The host also saw the duel. The stranger made a feint and a lunge and put three inches of steel into Porthos's breast. He stopped when he learned the name was Porthos, not D'Artagnan, helped him back, and rode off. D'Artagnan gives his word not to speak of the procurator's wife or the wound. He goes up to Number One.
Porthos is in bed playing lansquenet with Mousqueton. Partridges turn on a spit. Stewpans boil. Empty bottles cover the wardrobe. He cries out with joy, then watches D'Artagnan's face. He says he slipped on a stone after hitting his man three times and only strained a knee. He admits he lost the seventy-five pistoles and the horse at dice. The duchess has not answered; she must be at her country seat. He has written again. Mousqueton explains the feast: snares in the prince's wood, lines in the fish ponds, and a lasso through the cellar vent for wine. D'Artagnan lets the story stand. He tells how Aramis stopped at Crèvecœur, how Athos was left fighting at Amiens, how he himself ran the Comte de Wardes through to reach England. He does not mention Constance. He leaves Porthos a horse, pays the host, and rides on with Planchet toward the other two, already rid of one led horse.
