The Three Musketeers (Translated by Richard Pevear) - Alexandre Dumas [233]
“Climb down, climb down!”
Athos climbed down. His comrades, who were waiting anxiously, were overjoyed to see him appear.
“Come on, Athos, come on,” said d’Artagnan, “step on it, step on it! Now that we’ve found everything except money, it would be stupid to get killed.”
But Athos walked on majestically, whatever remarks his companions made to him, and they, finding all remarks useless, fell into step with him.
Grimaud and his basket had taken a good lead and were both out of range.
After a moment, they heard the noise of a wild fusillade.
“What’s that?” asked Porthos. “What are they shooting at? I don’t hear bullets whistling, and I don’t see anybody.”
“They’re shooting at our dead men,” replied Athos.
“But our dead men don’t shoot back.”
“Exactly. So they’ll think it’s an ambush, they’ll talk things over, they’ll send a white flag, and by the time they’ve discovered the joke, we’ll be out of range of their bullets. That’s why there’s no point getting a stitch in your side from hurrying.”
“Oh, I understand!” cried the marveling Porthos.
“That’s quite fortunate!” said Athos, shrugging his shoulders.
On their side, the French, seeing the four friends coming back at a walk, burst into shouts of enthusiasm.
Finally, a new musket volley was heard, and this time the bullets flattened themselves on the pebbles around the four friends and whistled lugubriously in their ears. The Rochelois had just finally taken the bastion.
“They’re clumsy fellows,” said Athos. “How many did we kill? Twelve?”
“Or fifteen.”
“How many did we crush?”
“Eight or ten.”
“And in exchange for all that, not a single scratch? Ah, no! What’s that on your hand, d’Artagnan? Blood, it seems to me?”
“It’s nothing,” said d’Artagnan.
“A stray bullet?”
“Not even.”
“What is it then?”
As we have said, Athos loved d’Artagnan like his own son, and this gloomy and inflexible character sometimes had a father’s worries about the young man.
“A scratch,” replied d’Artagnan. “My fingers got caught between two stones, one in the wall and one on my finger, and the skin was cut.”
“That’s what comes of having diamonds, my dear master,” Athos said disdainfully.
“Ah, wait,” cried Porthos, “there is indeed a diamond, and since there is a diamond, why the devil are we complaining about having no money?”
“Yes, why, in fact!” said Aramis.
“Well done, Porthos! There’s an idea for once.”
“Of course,” said Porthos, puffing himself up at Athos’s compliment, “since there’s a diamond, let’s sell it.”
“But,” said d’Artagnan, “it’s the queen’s diamond.”
“All the more reason,” Athos picked up. “The queen saving M. de Buckingham, her love—nothing could be more just; the queen saving us, her friends—nothing could be more moral. Let’s sell the diamond. What thinks M. l’abbé? I’m not asking Porthos’s opinion, he’s already given it.”
“I think,” said Aramis, blushing, “that as his ring does not come from a mistress, and consequently is not a token of love, d’Artagnan can sell it.”
“My dear, you speak like theology personified. And so your opinion is…?”
“To sell the diamond,” replied Aramis.
“Well, then,” d’Artagnan said gaily, “let’s sell it and say no more about it.”
The fusillade continued, but the friends were out of range, and the Rochelois only shot at them for the sake of their conscience.
“By heaven,” said Athos, “that idea came to Porthos just in time! Here we are in camp. And so, gentlemen, not a word more of this affair. We’re being observed, they’re coming to meet us, and we’re going to be carried in triumph.”
Indeed, as we have said, the whole camp was stirred up. More than two thousand people had watched, like a performance, the four friends’ successful fanfaronnade, a fanfaronnade of which they were far from suspecting the real motive. All that was heard was the cry: “Long live the guards! Long live the musketeers!” M. du Busigny came first to shake Athos’s hand and acknowledge that the bet was lost. The dragoon and the Switzer followed him, and all their comrades