d'Artagnan then perceived a thing that he had not before remarked--for nothing had led him to the examination--that the ground, trampled here and hoofmarked there, presented confused traces of men and horses.

Besides, the wheels of a carriage, which appeared to have come from Paris, had made a deep impression in the soft earth, which did not extend beyond the pavilion, but turned again toward Paris.
At length d'Artagnan, in pursuing his researches, found near the wall a woman's torn glove.

This glove, wherever it had not touched the muddy ground, was of irreproachable odor.

It was one of those perfumed gloves that lovers like to snatch from a pretty hand.
As d'Artagnan pursued his investigations, a more abundant and more icy sweat rolled in large drops from his forehead; his heart was oppressed by a horrible anguish; his respiration was broken and short.

And yet he said, to reassure himself, that this pavilion perhaps had nothing in common with Mme.Bonacieux; that the young woman had made an appointment with him before the pavilion, and not in the pavilion; that she might have been detained in Paris by her duties, or perhaps by the jealousy of her husband.
But all these reasons were combated, destroyed, overthrown, by that feeling of intimate pain which, on certain occasions, takes possession of our being, and cries to us so as to be understood unmistakably that some great misfortune is hanging over us.
Then d'Artagnan became almost wild.