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French and English together devoutly turned towards and responded to that Mass in the pause of bewildering uncertainty. "Which way are their heads turned?" Jeanne asked when it was over. "They are turned away from us, they are turned to Meung," was the reply. "Then let them go, de par Dieu," the Maid replied.
Unfortunately, the qualities of this horse were so well concealed under his strange-colored hide and his unaccountable gait, that at a time when everybody was a connoisseur in horseflesh, the appearance of the aforesaid pony at Meung which place he had entered about a quarter of an hour before, by the gate of Beaugency produced an unfavorable feeling, which extended to his rider.
On the staircase he met Athos and Porthos, who were coming to see him. They separated, and d'Artagnan rushed between them like a dart. "Pah! Where are you going?" cried the two Musketeers in a breath. "The man of Meung!" replied d'Artagnan, and disappeared.
Passing alongside one of them, d'Artagnan fancied he perceived on board it the woman of Meung the same whom the unknown gentleman had called Milady, and whom d'Artagnan had thought so handsome; but thanks to the current of the stream and a fair wind, his vessel passed so quickly that he had little more than a glimpse of her. The next day about nine o'clock in the morning, he landed at St. Valery.
"Much nearer, monseigneur; his majesty must by this time have arrived at Meung." "Does the court accompany him?" "Yes, monseigneur." "A propos, I forgot to ask you after M. le Cardinal." "His eminence appears to enjoy good health, monseigneur." "His nieces accompany him, no doubt?" "No, monseigneur; his eminence has ordered the Mesdemoiselles de Mancini to set out for Brouage.
"Holloa, Monsieur d'Artagnan!" said he, "is not that you whom I see yonder?" D'Artagnan raised his head and uttered a cry of joy. It was the man he called his phantom; it was his stranger of Meung, of the Rue des Fossoyeurs and of Arras. D'Artagnan drew his sword, and sprang toward the door.
She was giving expression to her habitual contempt for her sex as she crooned over, in a sufficiently audible voice to reach the ear of Fanchon, a hateful song of Jean Le Meung on women: "'Toutes vous etes, serez ou futes, De fait ou de volonte putes!"
"Impossible you a favorite of the minister!" "A favorite! no, indeed!" cried D'Artagnan. "Ah, my poor friend! I am just as poor a Gascon as when I saw you at Meung, twenty-two years ago, you know; alas!" and he concluded his speech with a deep sigh. "Nevertheless, you come as one in authority." "Because I happened to be in the ante-chamber when the cardinal called me, by the merest chance.
Jean de Meung abandoned entirely the refined and aristocratic atmosphere of his predecessor, and wrote with all the realism and coarseness of the middle class of that day. Lorris's vapid allegory faded into insignificance, becoming a mere peg for a huge mass of extraordinarily varied discourse.
Now in later history we find every important French cycle tending to be followed by one in England: as Chaucer followed Jean de Meung; Shakespeare, Ronsard and the Pleyade; Dryden and Pope, Moliere and Racine; Wordsworth and Shelley, the Revolution.
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