his hand to d’Artagnan, as if requesting permission to finish with others before he began with him, he called three times, raising his voice each time so as to run through the intermediate scale between the tone of command and that of anger—“Athos!”—“Porthos”—“ARAMIS!” The two musketeers, whose acquaintance we have already made, and who answered to the two last of these three names, immediately quitted the group of which they formed a portion, and advanced towards the cabinet, the door of which was closed immediately they had passed its threshold. Their bearing, although not quite calm, was at the same time full of dignity and submission, and their apparent indifference excited the admiration of d’Artagnan, who saw in these men a species of demi-gods, and in their chief an Olympian Jupiter, armed with all his thunders.
When the two musketeers had entered, and the door was closed behind them—when the murmuring buzz of the antechamber, to which the summons that had been given had doubtless furnished a new topic, had recommenced—when, lastly, M. de Treville had paced the whole length of his cabinet three or four times in silence, but with a frowning brow, passing each time before Porthos and Aramis, upright and mute as on parade, he suddenly stopped directly in front of them, and measuring them from top to toe with an angry look, exclaimed, “Do you know what the king said to me, and that not later than last evening? Do you know, gentlemen?”
“No,” answered the two musketeers, after a moment’s silence; “no, sir, we do not.”
“But we hope you will do us the honour of informing us,” added Aramis in his most polished tone, and with the most graceful bow.
“He told me that, for the future, he should recruit his musketeers from those of the cardinal.”
“From those of the cardinal! And why?” demanded Porthos with heat.
“Because he saw very well that his thin dregs required to be enlivened by some good and generous wine!”
The two musketeers blushed up to the very eyes.
D’Artagnan knew not where he was, and wished himself an hundred feet below the earth.
“Yes, yes,” continued M. De Treville, becoming more warm, “yes, his majesty was right; for, upon my honour, the musketeers cut but a sorry figure at court. Yesterday, whilst playing with the king, the cardinal recounted, with an air of condolence which much annoyed me, that on the previous day these cursed musketeers, these devils incarnate—and he dwelt on these words with an ironical accent, which annoyed me the more—these cutters and slashers—(looking at me with the eye of a tiger)—had loitered beyond closing time in a tavern in the Rue Ferou, and that a picquet of his guards (I thought he would laugh in my face) had been obliged to arrest the disturbers. ‘Od’s-life! you ought to know something about this. Arrest the musketeers! You were amongst them—you, sirs! do not deny it; you were recognised, and the cardinal named you. But it is all my own fault; yes, my fault; for I choose my own men. Look ye, Aramis! why did you ask me for a tunic, when a cassock suited you so well? Hark ye, Porthos! have you got such a splendid belt, only to hang to it a sword of straw? And Athos—I do not see Athos; where is he?”
“Sir,” answered Aramis, in a melancholy tone, “he is ill, very ill.”
“Ill! very ill, say you? and of what disorder?”
“We fear it is the small-pox,” answered Porthos, anxious to put in a word; “and this would be very distressing, since it would certainly spoil his face.”
“The small-pox! This is a marvellous story you are telling me, Porthos! Ill of small-pox at his age! No, no; but doubtless he is wounded, perhaps killed. Ah! if I were certain of this! Zounds, gentlemen, I do not understand why you haunt such loose places, why you quarrel in the streets, and play with the sword in the crossways; and I do not wish you to afford mirth for the cardinal’s guards, who are brave men, quiet, and skilful, who never throw themselves open to an arrest, and who, moreover, would not allow themselves to be arrested, not they! I am sure they would rather die than be arrested or escape! It is you who fly! who scamper away! A fine thing for the royal musketeers, indeed!”
Porthos and Aramis shook with rage. They could have strangled M. de Treville, had they not perceived that his great affection for them was the foundation of all he said.
As it was, they stamped on the carpet, bit their lips till the blood ran, and grasped the hilts of their swords with all their might.
M. de Treville’s summons for Athos, Porthos, and Aramis had, as we have said, been heard outside the room; and those who remained in the antechamber had concluded, from the sound of his voice, that he was in a towering rage. Ten curious heads, therefore, rested against the tapestry, and grew pale with anger, for their ears, glued to the door, lost not one word of what was said, whilst they rapidly repeated the taunting language of their captain to all who were in the antechamber. In an instant the whole hotel, from the door of the cabinet to the outer gate, was in a state of commotion.
“So! the musketeers of the king allow themselves to be arrested by the guards of the cardinal!” continued M. de Treville, not less excited within than were his soldiers without, but jerking out and mincing his words, and plunging them, as one may say, one by one, like poniards, into the bosoms of his auditors. “So, six of his excellency’s guards arrest six of his majesty’s musketeers! Sangdieu! I have taken my resolve. I will go hence to the Louvre, where I shall tender to the king my resignation as captain of the musketeers, and demand a lieutenancy in the cardinal’s guards; and if I fail in this, mortdieu, I will turn abbe!”
At these words the murmurs without broke out into a regular explosion; nothing but oaths and curses were everywhere heard. “Morbleu!” “Sangdieu!” and “Death to all the devils!” resounded through the hotel. D’Artagnan hastily glanced around the cabinet in search of some tapestry behind which he might hide himself, and failing in this, felt an almost uncontrollable desire to get under the table.
“Well, captain,” said Porthos, almost beside himself, “the truth is, we were six against six, but were unawares set upon, and before we had time to draw our swords, two of our party fell dead, and Athos was so grievously wounded as to be scarcely in better plight. You know him well, captain; twice he endeavoured to rise, and twice he fell back; and yet we did not yield ourselves up. No, we were dragged away by force; but escaped on the road. As for Athos, they believed him dead, so quietly left him on the field of battle, not thinking he was worth carrying away. That is the truth. Zounds! captain, one cannot gain every battle; even the great Pompey lost that of Pharsalia; and Francis, who, I have heard, was as brave as most men, lost the battle of Pavia.”
“And I can assure you that I killed one fellow with his own sword,” said Aramis, “for mine broke at the first parry. Killed or poniarded him, as you please!”
“I did not know these circumstances,” said M. de Treville, in a somewhat milder tone; “from what I now learn, the cardinal must have exaggerated.”
“But I beseech you, sir—” said Aramis, who, seeing his captain more calm, ventured to hazard a request—“I beseech you, sir, do not say that Athos is wounded; he would be in despair if it came to the king’s ears; as the wound is very severe, having, after passing through the shoulder, penetrated the chest, it is not impossible—”
At this moment the door opened, and a noble and beautiful face, but frightfully pale, appeared.
“Athos!” exclaimed both the gentlemen.
“Athos!” repeated M. de Treville himself.
“You inquired for me,” said Athos, to M. de Treville, in a perfectly calm
