The Three Musketeers (Translated by Richard Pevear) - Alexandre Dumas [28]
“Excuse me,” said d’Artagnan, trying to race on, “excuse me, but I’m in a hurry.”
But he had hardly gone down the first stair when an iron fist seized him by the sash and halted him.
“You’re in a hurry!” cried the musketeer, pale as a shroud. “Under that pretext, you butt into me, say ‘Excuse me,’ and think that’s enough? Not at all, my young man. Do you think, because you heard M. de Tréville speak to us a bit cavalierly today, that you can treat us the way he speaks to us? Think again, friend, you are not M. de Tréville.”
“By heaven,” replied d’Artagnan, recognizing Athos, who, after the bandaging performed by the doctor, was returning to his apartment, “by heaven, I didn’t do it on purpose, and I said ‘Excuse me.’ So it seems to me that that is enough. I repeat to you, however—and this time, on my honor, it may be too much!—that I am in a hurry. Release me, I beg you, and let me go about my business.”
“Monsieur,” said Athos, releasing him, “you are not polite. One can see you come from far away.”
D’Artagnan had already gone down three or four steps, but Athos’s remark pulled him up short.
“Morbleu, Monsieur!” he said, “however far away I come from, it is not for you to give me a lesson in good manners, let me tell you.”
“Perhaps,” said Athos.
“Ah! if I wasn’t in such a hurry,” cried d’Artagnan, “and if I wasn’t running after someone…”
“Monsieur-in-a-hurry, you will find me without having to run, understand?”
“And where is that, if you please?”
“By the Carmes-Deschaux.”24
“At what time?”
“Around noon.”
“Around noon, then. I’ll be there.”
“Try not to keep me waiting, for at a quarter past noon, I warn you, it is I who will go running after you, and I’ll cut your ears off on the run.”
“Fine!” d’Artagnan shouted to him. “I’ll be there at ten to noon!”
And he set off running as if the devil was after him, still hoping to find his unknown man, whose leisurely pace could not have taken him far.
But at the street door Porthos was talking with a soldier of the guards. Between the two talkers there was just the space of a man. D’Artagnan thought the space was enough for him, and he shot like an arrow between the two of them. But d’Artagnan had not counted on the wind. As he passed through, the wind swelled out Porthos’s long cloak, and d’Artagnan dove straight into it. Porthos undoubtedly had reasons for not abandoning this essential part of his clothing, for instead of letting go of the side he was holding, he pulled it to him, so that d’Artagnan was rolled up in the velvet by a rotating movement explained by Porthos’s stubborn resistance.
D’Artagnan heard the musketeer curse, wanted to get out from under the cloak that was blinding him, and sought his way through the folds. Above all he was afraid of damaging the magnificent baldric we are acquainted with; but, on timidly opening his eyes, he found his nose pressed between Porthos’s shoulders, that is, precisely against the baldric.
Alas! like most things in this world that have nothing to boast of but their appearance, the baldric was gold in front and simple buff behind. Porthos, vainglorious as he was, unable to have an all-gold baldric, at least had one by half: the necessity of the head cold and the urgency of the cloak thus became comprehensible.
“Vertubleu!” cried Porthos, doing his best to rid himself of d’Artagnan, who was scrambling about on his back, “you must be mad to go throwing yourself at people like that!”
“Excuse me,” said d’Artagnan, reappearing from under the giant’s shoulder, “but I’m in a great hurry, I’m running after someone, and…”
“And do you forget your eyes when you run, by any chance?” asked Porthos.
“No,” replied d’Artagnan, nettled, “no, and thanks to my eyes I even see what others don’t see.”
Porthos may or