The Three Musketeers (The Modern Library) - Alexandre Dumas [25]
D’Artagnan recognized Athos who, having had his wounds dressed by the doctor, was on his way home.
“I assure you I did not do it on purpose,” D’Artagnan apologized. “As it was an accident, I said ‘Excuse me’. I should think that was sufficient apology. Once more, I say I am in a very great hurry—on my honor!—and I’ll not say it again. Let me go, please, let me go about my business.”
“Monsieur, you are far from courteous,” Athos replied, loosing his hold of him. “It is obvious that you are newly come from some remote province.”
D’Artagnan had already gone down several steps but at this remark he stopped short:
“Morbleu, Monsieur,” he growled, “I may come from a distance but I warn you, you are not the man to give me lessons in deportment.”
“Perhaps.”
“If I were not in such a hurry and if I were not chasing somebody—”
“Monsieur-the-gentleman-in-a-great-hurry, you can find me again without running after me, if you see what I mean.”
“And where, if you please?”
“Near the Carmes-Deschaux, you know, the Carmelite convent.”
“At what time?”
“About noon.”
“About noon. Very well. I shall be there.”
“Try to be punctual because if you make me wait till a quarter past, I shall cut your ears off as you run.”
“Good, I shall be there at ten to twelve.”
And D’Artagnan set off as though borne by the Devil, confident that he would overtake the man of Meung whom he had seen sauntering down the street. But at the main gate, he saw Porthos talking to the soldier on guard. Between the two of them, there was just room for a man to pass; D’Artagnan, thinking he could whisk through, shot forward like an arrow between them. Unfortunately he had not reckoned with the wind. As he was about to pass, a gust blew out the portly musketeer’s long cloak and D’Artagnan landed right in the middle of it. Porthos doubtless had his own reasons for not wishing to abandon this essential part of his costume, for instead of releasing the flap he held in his hand, he pulled it toward him. D’Artagnan was thus rolled up inside the velvet by a rotatory movement attributable to the persistency of Porthos.
Hearing the musketeer swear, he tried to emerge from under the cloak which was blinding him and sought to find his way from under its folds. Above all he must avoid marring the virgin freshness of the baldric Porthos set such store by. Opening his eyes timidly, he found his nose glued between the musketeer’s shoulders flat against the baldric.
Alas, like most things in this world which have but appearance in their favor, the baldric was aglitter with gold in front, but behind it was of ordinary buff. Vainglorious as he was, if Porthos could not afford a baldric wholly of gold, he would have at least one-half of it. This explained the necessity of the cold he had complained of and the urgency of the cloak he sported.
“Vertubleu, you must be crazy to crash into people this way,” Porthos grumbled as D’Artagnan kept wriggling behind him.
“Excuse me,” said D’Artagnan, reappearing from under the giant’s shoulder, “but I am in a great hurry. I was running after somebody and—”
“And you always go blind when you run, I suppose.”
“No,” D’Artagnan answered, somewhat nettled. “In fact, thanks to my eyes I can see a good many things other people don’t.”
He did not care whether Porthos understood the allusion or not. At all events, the musketeer gave free rein to his anger:
“Monsieur, I warn you, you stand an excellent chance of being disemboweled if you try pushing a musketeer about.”
“Disemboweled? That’s strong language, Monsieur.”
“It befits a man accustomed to looking his enemies in the face!”
“Ha, that’s no lie!” D’Artagnan laughed. “Certainly you wouldn’t show them your back.”
And enchanted with his wit, he went off, still chuckling over the semi-golden baldric. Porthos, foaming with rage, was about to fall upon him.
“Later, later!” D’Artagnan admonished. “When