The Three Musketeers (Translated by Richard Pevear) - Alexandre Dumas [59]
“But where are you going, Monsieur, where are you going?”
“I’m climbing down by the window,” cried d’Artagnan, “to get there the sooner. You put the tiles back, sweep the floor, leave by the door, and run where I’ve told you.”
“Oh! Monsieur, Monsieur, you’ll get yourself killed!” cried Planchet.
“Quiet, imbecile,” said d’Artagnan. And clinging to the windowsill with his hands, he let himself drop from the second floor, which fortunately was not very high, and ended up without a scratch.
Then he went at once to knock on the door.
“It’s my turn to get caught in the mousetrap, and too bad for the cats who come up against such a mouse!”
The knocker had barely rung out under the young man’s hand, when the tumult ceased, footsteps approached, the door opened a crack, and d’Artagnan, his sword bared, burst into M. Bonacieux’s apartment, the door of which, no doubt moved by a spring, closed behind him of itself.
Then those who still lived in the unfortunate house of Bonacieux and the nearest neighbors heard great cries, stamping, the clash of swords, and a prolonged smashing of furniture. A moment later, those who, surprised by this noise, had come to their windows to find out what was causing it, were able to see the door open again and four men dressed in black, not coming out of it, but flying out like frightened crows, leaving on the floor and the table corners the feathers of their wings, that is, tatters of their clothing and shreds of their cloaks.
D’Artagnan emerged the victor without much difficulty, it must be said, for only one of the alguazils was armed, and he only defended himself for the sake of form. It is true that the other three had tried to knock the young man out with chairs, stools, and pottery; but two or three scratches inflicted by the Gascon’s blade had frightened them. Ten minutes had sufficed for their defeat, and d’Artagnan was left master of the field.
The neighbors, who had opened their windows with the coolness peculiar to the inhabitants of Paris in those times of riots and brawls, closed them again once they had seen the four men in black run off: instinct told them that for the moment everything was over.
Besides, it was getting late, and, then as now, people went to bed early in the Luxembourg quarter.
D’Artagnan, left alone with Mme Bonacieux, turned to her. The poor woman lay sprawled in an armchair and half in a swoon.
She was a charming woman of twenty-five or twenty-six, with brown hair and blue eyes, a slightly upturned nose, admirable teeth, a marbled complexion of rose and opal. There, however, ended the signs that might make one confuse her for a grande dame. Her hands were white, but without delicacy; her feet did not speak for a woman of quality. Fortunately, d’Artagnan was not yet concerned with such details.
While d’Artagnan was examining Mme Bonacieux, and had come to her feet, as we have said, he saw a fine cambric handkerchief on the floor, which he picked up out of habit, and at the corner of which he recognized the same monogram he had seen on the handkerchief over which he had almost had his throat cut by Aramis.
Since that time, d’Artagnan had been wary of handkerchiefs with coats of arms, so he put the one he had picked up back in Mme Bonacieux’s pocket without saying a word.
At that moment, Mme Bonacieux came to her senses. She opened her eyes, looked around in terror, and saw that the apartment was empty and she was alone with her deliverer. She held out her hands to him at once and smiled. Mme Bonacieux had the most charming smile in the world.
“Ah, Monsieur!” she said. “It is you who have saved me; allow me to thank you.”
“Madame,” said d’Artagnan, “I have done only what any gentleman would have done in my place. You therefore owe me no thanks.”
“But I do, Monsieur, I do, and I hope to prove to you that you have not done a service to an ungrateful woman. But what