quite furious, had passed through the antechamber in three bounds, and reached the staircase, which he was about to descend by four steps at a time, when he suddenly ran full butt against a musketeer, who was leaving M. de Treville’s suite of rooms by a private door, and butting his shoulder, made him utter a cry, or rather a howl. “Excuse me,” said d’Artagnan, trying to continue his course; “excuse me; I am in a great hurry.”
But he had hardly descended the first step, before a hand of iron seized him by the scarf and stopped him. “You are in a hurry!” exclaimed the musketeer, as pale as a sheet, “and under this pretext you dash against me. You say, ‘Excuse me,’ and think that is sufficient. But it is not so, my young man. Do you imagine, because you heard M. de Treville address us somewhat bluntly today that any one may speak to us as he speaks? Undeceive yourself, comrade: you are not M. de Treville?”
“Upon my word—” said d’Artagnan, seeing that it was Athos, who, after the treatment of the surgeon, was now returning to his apartments—“upon my word, I did not run against you on purpose; and not having done it on purpose, I said, ‘Excuse me.’ It appears to me, therefore, quite sufficient. Nevertheless, I repeat—and this time perhaps it is an excess of courtesy—that, upon my honour, I am in a hurry, a confounded hurry: loose me, therefore, I beseech you, and permit me to go about my business.”
“Sir,” said Athos, releasing him, “you are by no means polite; it is evident that you come from a distance.”
D’Artagnan had already descended three or four steps, but at the remark of Athos, he stopped short. “Sir,” said he, “from whatever distance I may come, I assure you that you are not the individual to give me a lesson in good manners.”
“Perhaps I am,” replied Athos.
“Ah! would that I were not in such a hurry,” exclaimed d’Artagnan, “and that I were not running after some one!”
“Monsieur in a hurry! you will find me without running; do you understand?”
“And where, may it please you?”
“Near the Carmes-Deschaux.”
“At what hour?”
“About twelve o’clock.”
“Very well, I will be there.”
“Take care that you do not make me wait too long,” said Athos, “for I tell you plainly, at a quarter past twelve, it is I that will run after you, and cut off your ears as you go!”
“Good!” exclaimed d’Artagnan; “but I will take special care to be there at ten minutes before twelve.”
And he commenced running again as if possessed by devils, hoping still to catch the unknown, whose slow pace could not yet have carried him beyond his reach. But at the corner of the street Porthos was talking with one of the soldiers on guard, and between these two there was just space enough for a man to pass. D’Artagnan fancied that this space was sufficient for him, and he shot forward to rush like an arrow between the two. He had not, however, made allowance for the wind, which, whilst he was passing, actually bellied out the enormous cloak of Porthos, into which he fairly plunged. Doubtless Porthos had cogent reasons for not abandoning this most essential portion of his dress; and therefore, instead of letting go the corner which he held, he drew it more closely towards him, so that d’Artagnan found himself rolled up in the velvet, by a rotatory motion which is clearly explained by the obstinate resistance of Porthos.
D’Artagnan, hearing the musketeer swear, wished to escape from under the cloak, which completely blinded him, and sought for an outlet from the folds. Above all things he feared that he had injured the freshness of the magnificent belt, of which we have heard so much; but on recovering his powers of vision he found his nose jammed between the shoulders of Porthos; that is, exactly on the belt. Alas! like the majority of the fine things of this world, which are only made for outward show, the belt was of gold in front, and of simple leather behind. In fact, Porthos, proud as he was, being unable to afford a belt entirely of gold, had procured one of which the half at least was of that metal. And this may perhaps account for the cold under which Porthos had avowed himself as suffering, and the consequent need of the cloak.
“’Od’s-boddikins!” cried Porthos, making every effort to free himself from d’Artagnan, who kept poking his nose into his back; “you are mad to throw yourself in this manner upon people.”
“Excuse me,” said d’Artagnan, reappearing from beneath the shoulder of the giant, “but I was in a hurry; I am running after some one—”
“Do you shut your eyes when you run?” demanded Porthos.
“No,” answered d’Artagnan, somewhat piqued, “no; and, thanks to my eyes, I can see what others do not see.”
Whether Porthos understood him or not, he yet gave way to his anger. “Sir,” said he, “you will get yourself chastised, if you thus rub against the musketeers.”
“Chastised, sir!” said d’Artagnan; “your expression is harsh.”
“It is such as becomes a man who is accustomed to face his enemies.”
“Ah, by St. Denis,” replied d’Artagnan, “I know well that you would not turn your back upon yours!” and the young man, delighted with his joke, marched off, laughing outrageously.
Porthos foamed with anger, and was hastening after him; but d’Artagnan turned and said—
“By and by, by and by, when you are without your cloak.”
“At one o’clock, then, behind the Luxembourg,” shouted Porthos.
“Very well, at one o’clock,” answered d’Artagnan, as he turned into the street adjoining.
But neither in the street which he had just traversed, nor in that down which he looked, did he see any one. Slowly as the stranger had walked, he had disappeared. Perhaps he had entered some house. D’Artagnan inquired after him of every one he met; he even went down to the ferry, returned by the Rue de Seine and La Croix Rouge, but no one, actually no one, was to be seen. This pursuit, however, was so far serviceable to him, that, as the perspiration bathed his forehead, his heart grew cool, and he then began to reflect on the events which had just transpired. They were numerous and inauspicious. It was scarcely eleven o’clock, and already the morning had brought with it the loss of M. de Treville’s favour, since he must have deemed the mode in which d’Artagnan left him extremely abrupt; beside this, he had picked up good duels, with two men, each of them capable of slaying three d’Artagnans; and, lastly, these duels were with musketeers, with two of those very men whom he esteemed so highly as to rank them in his mind and heart above all the world. The Fates were against him; sure of being killed by Athos, it is clear our youth did not care much about Porthos. However, as hope is the last thing which is extinguished in man’s heart, he began to hope he might survive—it might be, to be sure, with some terrible wounds; and, under the impression that he should survive, he gave himself the following rebukes as a guard for the future:—“What a harebrained fellow I am! What a booby! This brave and unlucky Athos was wounded on the shoulder, against which I must therefore run full butt like a ram. The only thing which surprises me is, that he did not kill me at once. He would have been justified in doing so, for the pain I caused him must have been excruciating. As for Porthos—oh! as for Porthos, upon my word, it is even more droll.” And in spite of all his efforts to restrain himself, the youth began to laugh, at the same
