The Three Musketeers (The Modern Library) - Alexandre Dumas [29]
“If I manage to last until I get to him, I shall dispatch him blithely,” he murmured. “At any rate, I shall aim at his face, which was Caesar’s advice to his soldiers before they joined battle with Pompey’s. At worst, I shall at least have damaged that handsome mien he is so proud of.”
Further, D’Artagnan was armed with that invincible stock of determination his father had communicated to him. He remembered the old hero’s exact words: “Endure nothing from anyone save Monseigneur Cardinal and the King.” Sped by this counsel, he flew rather than walked toward the monastery of the Carmes Déchaussés or Barefoot Carmelite Friars, which, in those days, was known as the Carmes Deschaux. It was a building innocent of windows and surrounded by barren fields, less frequented than the Pré-aux-Clercs as a dueling ground and usually chosen by men who had no time to lose.
When D’Artagnan arrived in sight of the bare space extending along the foot of the monastery wall, Athos had been waiting only five minutes. Twelve o’clock was striking. D’Artagnan was therefore as punctual as the Woman of Samaria and as the most rigorously casuistic of duelists might wish.
Though Monsieur de Tréville’s physician had dressed the musketeer’s wounds afresh, he was still suffering. D’Artagnan found him seated on a stone, waiting with that placidity and dignity which never forsook him. Seeing D’Artagnan draw near, Athos rose and came courteously to meet him; D’Artagnan, for his part, took off his hat and bowed so deeply that its feathers swept the ground.
“Monsieur, I have engaged two of my friends as seconds, but they have not arrived yet. I am surprised at the delay; it is not at all their custom.”
“Monsieur,” D’Artagnan answered, “I have no seconds. I arrived in Paris just yesterday. The only person I know in the city is Monsieur de Tréville. I was recommended to him by my father who has the honor of being a tolerably close friend of his.”
After a moment’s reflection, Athos asked:
“Monsieur de Tréville is the only person you know?”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“Look here, look here!” Athos grumbled. He was addressing D’Artagnan yet half of what he said was for his own benefit. “If I kill you, I shall be taken for a child-slaying ogre. Everybody will swear that I robbed the cradle!”
“No one will say our fight was too one-sided,” D’Artagnan protested with a bow not devoid of dignity. “After all, you are doing me the honor of crossing swords with me although your wounds must be giving you considerable trouble.”
“Ay, it is all very troublesome, I must confess. And you hurt me devilishly when you charged into me. But I shall fence with my left hand; I usually do so in such circumstances. Please do not think I am doing you a favor, I am either-handed. In fact, you will be at a disadvantage; left-handers can be pretty irksome for those who are not used to them.”
“Monsieur,” said D’Artagnan bowing again, “I assure you I am immensely grateful to you for your perfect courtesy.”
“You are too kind,” Athos replied, ever the gentleman. “Let us speak of something else, if you please.” Then, as a twinge of pain seized him: “Sangbleu!” he cried. “You certainly hurt me. My shoulder is on fire!”
“If you would permit me—” D’Artagnan ventured timidly.
“What, Monsieur?”
“I have a miraculous balm for wounds. My mother gave it to me. I have had occasion to try it on myself.”
“Well?”
“Well, I am certain that in less than three days this balm would cure you, Monsieur. After three days, when you are cured, I would still deem it a great honor to cross swords with you.”
D’Artagnan spoke with a simplicity that did honor to his courtesy without casting the least doubt upon his courage.
“God’s truth, Monsieur, there’s a proposition I cannot but admire.