On the first Monday of April 1625, the market town of Meung, where the author of the Romance of the Rose was born, was in a state of revolution. The women, running toward the high street, cried out: "Look! A man is arriving!" And the men, running too, added: "He's a man of war!" Indeed, a young man mounted on a fire-colored horse was advancing slowly, and one could see, by his somewhat haughty mien and his air of superiority, that he was not from the region. This young man was d'Artagnan. Picture Don Quixote at eighteen, Don Quixote unhorsed, without armor and without thigh-pieces, wearing a woolen doublet whose blue color had turned into an ungraspable shade of wine-lees and celestial azure. Picture a long, brown face, prominent cheekbones, a sign of shrewdness, enormously developed maxillary muscles, an infallible sign by which a Gascon is recognized even without a beret, and our young man had a beret adorned with a grouse feather; an open and intelligent eye, a hooked yet fine nose; a stature too tall for an adolescent, too short for a grown man, and which an exercised eye would have judged to be that of a farmer's son, had one not seen, hanging from his belt, a long sword which, beating against its owner's calves and bristling his mount's coat, hardly allowed anyone to be mistaken as to his status as a gentleman. Indeed, that was not all: d'Artagnan's horse was so extraordinary that it drew attention. It was a Béarn nag, twelve to fourteen years old, yellow in coat, without hair on its tail, but not without ulcers on its legs; which, while walking, lowered its head lower than its knees, which rendered the use of the curb pointless, and yet made its eight leagues a day. Unfortunately, the qualities of this horse were so well hidden under a strange coat and an irregular gait, that, in a time when everyone was a connoisseur of horses, the appearance of the aforesaid nag produced in Meung, where it entered through the town gate, a sensation of which the owner himself was humiliated. This sensation had been more painful to d'Artagnan, because he was well aware of it, having had plenty of leisure to observe its effects during the journey from Meung to Paris. His horse, indeed, had been the object of mockery at every inn along the road; and on this subject, d'Artagnan had not failed to get angry, but he had ended up understanding that, for a Gascon, anger is a bad advisor, and that if he wanted to reach Paris, he had to let people laugh. He therefore contented himself with accepting his lot, and after taking a few steps, he arrived in front of the Franc-Meunier inn, where he dismounted. Scarcely had he set foot on the ground than a man dressed in black came out of the inn laughing loudly, and passing in front of him, said to him: "Ah! Sir, here is a horse that has made some noise in its youth!" D'Artagnan, who was a rather jolly fellow and who, moreover, had the Gascon wit, turned around, and glaring at the man speaking to him: "Sir," he said, "you are an impertinent fellow." And he placed his hand on the hilt of his sword. "Ah!" cried the man, "so you are in quite a hurry to fight?" And he drew his sword in turn. But d'Artagnan, quicker, drew his own and lunged boldly. Unfortunately, he was dealing with a consummate swordsman; for the moment he was about to strike, the man feinted, and passing his sword under d'Artagnan's arm, made it fly out of his hands. Then he picked it up, and returning it to its scabbard: "You are too young," he said, "to measure yourself against a man. Go along, go along, you will prove yourself one day." And without waiting for an answer, he re-entered the inn. D'Artagnan, furious and ashamed, picked up his sword, and since he had nothing left to fight with, remounted his horse and resumed his journey.