The Three Musketeers (Translated by Richard Pevear) - Alexandre Dumas [24]
“And I have the honor of assuring you that I killed one of them with his own sword,” said Aramis, “for mine was broken at the first parry…Killed or stabbed, Monsieur, whichever you please.”
“I didn’t know that,” M. de Tréville picked up in a slightly softened tone. “M. le cardinal was exaggerating, as I see.”
“But, for pity’s sake, Monsieur,” continued Aramis, who, seeing his captain calm down, dared to venture an entreaty, “for pity’s sake, Monsieur, don’t say that Athos himself is wounded: he would be in despair if it came to the ears of the king, and as the wound is most grave, seeing that after passing through the shoulder it penetrated the chest, it is to be feared…”
At that same instant the portière was raised, and a noble, handsome, but dreadfully pale head appeared under the fringe.
“Athos!” cried the two musketeers.
“Athos!” repeated M. de Tréville himself.
“You sent for me, Monsieur,” Athos said to M. de Tréville in a weakened but perfectly calm voice, “you sent for me, as our comrades have told me, and I hasten to respond to your orders. Well, Monsieur, what do you want of me?”
And at those words the musketeer, irreproachably dressed, tightly belted as was his custom, entered the office with a firm stride. M. de Tréville, moved to the bottom of his heart by this show of courage, rushed to him.
“I was just telling these gentlemen,” he added, “that I forbid my musketeers to risk their lives unnecessarily, for brave men are very dear to the king, and the king knows that his musketeers are the bravest men on earth. Your hand, Athos.”
And without waiting for the newcomer to respond to this show of affection himself, M. de Tréville seized his right hand and pressed it with all his might, not noticing that Athos, for all his self-mastery, let escape a wince of pain and grew paler still, which one would have thought impossible.
The door had been left ajar, such was the sensation made by the arrival of Athos, whose wound, despite the well-kept secret, was known to everyone. A hubbub of satisfaction greeted the captain’s last words, and two or three heads, carried away by the enthusiasm, appeared through the openings in the tapestry. M. de Tréville was no doubt on the point of sharply reprimanding this infraction of the rules of etiquette, when he suddenly felt Athos’s hand clench in his own, and, turning his eyes to him, saw that he was about to faint. Athos, who had summoned all his forces to struggle against the pain, was finally defeated by it, and fell to the floor like a dead man.
“A surgeon!” cried M. de Tréville. “Mine, the king’s, the best! A surgeon, sangdieu! or my brave Athos will depart this life.”
At M. de Tréville’s cries, everyone rushed into his office, for he never thought of closing the door on anyone, each of them coming to the wounded man’s aid. But all this concern would have been useless, if the doctor sent for had not been found right in the hôtel itself. He broke through the crowd, approached the still unconscious Athos, and, as all this noise and movement hampered him greatly, demanded first and most urgently that the musketeer be carried to a neighboring room. M. de Tréville opened a door at once and showed the way to Porthos and Aramis, who carried their comrade in their arms. Behind this group came the surgeon, and behind the surgeon, the door was closed.
Then M. de Tréville’s office, ordinarily so respected a place, momentarily became a subsidiary to the antechamber. Everyone held forth, declaimed, spoke out, cursing, swearing, sending the cardinal and his guards to all the devils.
A moment later, Porthos and Aramis reappeared; the surgeon and M. de Tréville alone had stayed by the wounded man.
Finally M. de Tréville reappeared in his turn. The wounded man had recovered consciousness; the surgeon declared that there was nothing in the musketeer’s condition that should worry his friends, his weakness having been caused purely and simply by loss of blood.
Then M. de Tréville gave a sign of the hand, and they all withdrew, except for d’Artagnan, who had by no means forgotten that