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By Root 1233 0

and less reasonable than he would have been in his place. He hoped, thanks to the honest excuses he had saved up for him, to make a friend of Athos, whose lordly air and austere appearance pleased him greatly. He flattered himself that he might frighten Porthos with the adventure of the baldric, which, if he was not killed at once, he could tell to everyone, a story which, skillfully brought to full effect, should cover Porthos with ridicule. Finally, as for the sly Aramis, he was not much afraid of him, and, supposing that he got to him, he undertook to dispatch him well and good, or at least to strike him on the face, as Caesar recommended doing to Pompey’s soldiers,28 thus spoiling forever that beauty he was so proud of.

Furthermore, there was in d’Artagnan that unshakable supply of resolution which his father’s advice had deposited in his heart, advice the substance of which was: “Suffer nothing from anyone except the king, the cardinal, and M. de Tréville.” Thus he rather flew than walked to the convent of the Carmes Déchaussés, or Deschaux, as they said at that time, a sort of windowless building bordered by barren fields, a subsidiary of the Pré-aux-clercs,29 and which commonly served for the encounters of men who had no time to lose.

When d’Artagnan came in view of the little wasteland that lay at the foot of the monastery, Athos had been waiting for only five minutes, and it was striking noon. He was thus as punctual as the Samaritaine,30 and the most rigorous casuist with regard to duels had nothing to say.

Athos, who was still suffering cruelly from his wound, though it had been newly bandaged by M. de Tréville’s surgeon, was sitting on a post and awaiting his adversary with that peaceful countenance and dignified air which never left him. At the sight of d’Artagnan, he stood up and politely took a few steps towards him. The latter, for his part, approached his adversary not otherwise than with his hat in his hand and its plume dragging on the ground.

“Monsieur,” said Athos, “I have informed two of my friends who will serve me as seconds, but these two friends have not yet arrived. I’m surprised that they are late: it is not their habit.”

“I myself have no seconds, Monsieur,” said d’Artagnan, “for, having come to Paris only yesterday, I know no one here as yet except M. de Tréville, to whom I was recommended by my father, who has the honor to be something of a friend of his.”

Athos reflected for a moment.

“You know only M. de Tréville?” he asked.

“Yes, Monsieur, I know only him.”

“Ah, but that…” Athos went on, speaking half to himself and half to d’Artagnan, “but if I kill you, I’ll look like a child eater!”

“Not so much, Monsieur,” replied d’Artagnan with a bow that was not lacking in dignity, “not so much, since you do me the honor of drawing with a wound that must be a great hindrance to you.”

“A great hindrance, on my word, and you caused me the devil’s own pain, I must say; but I’ll use my left hand, as is my habit in such circumstances. Don’t think I’m doing you a kindness; I draw just as well with both hands; and there will even be a disadvantage for you: a left-handed man is very troublesome for people who are not forewarned. I regret not having informed you of this circumstance earlier.”

“Truly, Monsieur,” said d’Artagnan, inclining once more, “you are of a courtesy for which I could not be more grateful.”

“You embarrass me,” replied Athos with his gentlemanly air. “Let’s speak of something else, I beg you, unless you find it disagreeable. Ah, sangbleu, you really hurt me! My shoulder’s on fire!”

“If you would permit…” d’Artagnan said timidly.

“What, Monsieur?”

“I have a miraculous balm for wounds, a balm that comes to me from my mother, and which I have tried myself.”

“Well, then?”

“Well, then! I’m sure that in less than three days this balm will cure you, and at the end of three days, when you’re cured, well, then, Monsieur, it will still be a great honor for me to be your man.”

D’Artagnan spoke these words with a simplicity that did honor to his courtesy without damaging his courage