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The Englishman stared at Athos, thinking he was joking; but Athos was not joking in the least.

“Gentlemen,” he said, addressing both his companions and their adversaries, “are we ready?”

“Yes,” the Englishmen and the Frenchmen replied with one voice.

“On guard, then,” said Athos.

And at once eight swords flashed in the rays of the setting sun, and the combat began with a fury quite natural among men who were enemies twice over.

Athos fenced with as much calm and method as if he was in a fencing school.

Porthos, no doubt cured of his overconfidence by his adventure in Chantilly, played a game filled with subtlety and prudence.

Aramis, who had the third canto of his poem to finish, worked quickly, like a man in a great hurry.

Athos was the first to kill his adversary: he gave him only one stroke, but, as he had warned him, the stroke was fatal, it went through his heart.

Porthos was the second to bring his man down: he had pierced his thigh. Then, as the Englishman had yielded him his sword without offering any further resistance, Porthos took him in his arms and brought him to his carriage.

Aramis pressed his man so vigorously that, after falling back some fifty paces, he ended by taking flight for all he was worth and disappeared, to the hooting of the lackeys.

As for d’Artagnan, he had played a pure and simple defensive game. Then, when he had seen his adversary well wearied, he had sent his sword flying with a vigorous quarte thrust. The baron, seeing himself disarmed, retreated two or three steps; but as he did so, his foot slipped, and he fell backwards.

D’Artagnan was upon him in a single bound. Bringing the sword to his throat, he said to the Englishman:

“I could kill you, Monsieur, for you are certainly in my hands, but I grant you your life out of love for your sister.”

D’Artagnan was overjoyed. He had just carried out the plan he had devised beforehand, and the elaboration of which had brought to his face those smiles we have mentioned.

The Englishman, delighted to be dealing with such a well-rounded gentleman, embraced him, patted the musketeers on the back a thousand times, and, as Porthos’s adversary was already installed in the carriage, and Aramis’s had bolted, they only had to think about the dead man.

As Porthos and Aramis undressed him in hopes that his wound was not fatal, a fat purse fell from his belt. D’Artagnan picked it up and held it out to Lord de Winter.

“What the devil to you want me to do with that?” said the Englishman.

“Give it to his family,” said d’Artagnan.

“His family could not care less about such a trifle: they will inherit an income of fifteen thousand louis. Keep the purse for your lackeys.”

D’Artagnan put the purse in his pocket.

“And now, my young friend, for you will permit me, I hope, to call you that,” said Lord de Winter, “this very evening, if you wish, I will introduce you to my sister, Lady Clarick;132 for I would like her in turn to take you into her good graces, and, as she is not altogether out of favor at court, a word from her might not be entirely useless to you in the future.”

D’Artagnan blushed with pleasure and bowed as a sign of assent.

Meanwhile, Athos came over to him.

“What are you going to do with that purse?” he said softly in his ear.

“Why, I was counting on giving it to you, my dear Athos.”

“To me? Why so?”

“After all, you killed him: these are the spoils of war.”

“I, an enemy’s heir?” said Athos. “Whom do you take me for?”

“It’s the custom in war,” said d’Artagnan, “why shouldn’t it be the custom in a duel?”

“Even on the battlefield,” said Athos, “I have never done that.”

Porthos shrugged his shoulders. Aramis, by a movement of his lips, approved of Athos.

“In that case,” said d’Artagnan, “let’s give the money to our lackeys, as Lord de Winter told us to do.”

“Yes,” said Athos, “let’s give the purse, not to our lackeys, but to the Englishmen’s.”

Athos took the purse and tossed it to the coachman:

“For you and your comrades.”

This grand manner in