The Three Musketeers (The Modern Library) - Alexandre Dumas [30]
“If you are in a hurry, Monsieur,” D’Artagnan suggested in the same polite tone he had used before, “we might set to without your seconds. Do not stand upon ceremony; you may dispatch me as soon as you care to.”
“I like you for those words,” said Athos, nodding graciously. “They came from an intelligent mind and a generous heart. Monsieur, I prize men of your mettle. I see plainly that if we do not kill each other, I shall hereafter have much pleasure conversing with you. But let us wait for my friends, if you please; I have plenty of time and it would be more seemly.” He had barely finished speaking when, looking up: “Here comes one of them!” he cried, as, to his surprise, D’Artagnan discerned the gigantic bulk of Porthos at the far end of the Rue de Vaugirard.
“What! Is Monsieur Porthos one of your seconds?”
“Certainly. Does that disturb you?”
“No, by no means.”
“And here comes the second one!”
As D’Artagnan turned to follow the direction in which Athos was pointing, he perceived Aramis.
“What?” he cried, even more astonished than before, “Monsieur Aramis is your other second?”
“Of course. Don’t you know that none of us is ever seen without the others? Musketeers and Guards, the Court and the city know us as the Three Inseparables. Of course, as you come from Dax or Pau—”
“From Tarbes—”
“From Tarbes, then, you are probably unaware of this fact.”
“By my troth, you are well-named, gentlemen, and my adventure, should it make a stir, will certainly prove that your union is not founded upon contrasts.”
Meanwhile Porthos came up, waved his hand to Athos, then, noticing D’Artagnan, stopped short, gaping with surprise. Incidentally he had changed his baldric and left off his cloak.
“Well, bless me! what does this mean?” he asked.
“This is the gentleman I am to fight with,” Athos explained, pointing to D’Artagnan, then opening his palm in a gesture of salutation.
“But I am going to fight with him too!”
“Not before one o’clock, Monsieur,” D’Artagnan reminded him.
“And I too am to fight with this gentleman,” Aramis announced, joining the group.
“Not until two o’clock,” D’Artagnan replied as casually as before.
Aramis turned to Athos:
“By the way, Athos, what are you fighting about?”
“By my faith, I’m none too sure. As a matter of fact, he hurt my shoulder. What about you, Porthos?”
“I’m fighting—” Porthos blushed a deep crimson. “I’m fighting because I’m fighting!”
Athos, whose keen eye lost no detail of the scene, observed a faint sly smile steal over the young Gascon’s lips as he specified:
“We had a slight disagreement about dress.”
“And you, Aramis?”
“Oh, ours is a theological quarrel.” Aramis made a sign to D’Artagnan begging him to keep the cause of their difference a secret. Athos saw a second smile flit across D’Artagnan’s lips.
“Indeed?”
“Yes,” D’Artagnan agreed. “A passage in Saint Augustine upon which we could not concur.”
“A clever fellow, this Gascon, no doubt about it,” Athos murmured under his breath.
“And now that we are all here, gentlemen,” D’Artagnan announced. “Allow me to offer you my apologies.”
At the word “apologies,” a cloud passed over the brow of Athos, a haughty smile curled the lips of Porthos, and a nod of refusal from Aramis proved more expressive than any words he might have said.
“One moment, gentlemen, you do not understand me.” D’Artagnan objected. As he tossed back his head, the sunlight fell upon it, emphasizing its bold, sharp lines. “I am apologizing only in case I cannot settle my score with all three of you. Monsieur Athos has the first right to kill me, a fact which