The Three Musketeers. Alexandre Dumas

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      “I give you this information, sir,” said the host, “that you may keep yourself on your guard.”

      “And did he not name any one in his anger?”

      “Yes, he slapped his pocket, and said, ‘We shall see what M. de Treville will say to this insult offered to his protégé.’”

      “M. de Treville?” said the unknown, becoming more attentive; “he slapped his pocket, and mentioned the name of M. de Treville?—Let us see, my good host: whilst this young man was senseless, you did not fail, I am sure, to examine that pocket: what did it contain?”

      “A letter, addressed to M. de Treville, captain of the Musketeers.”

      “Really?”

      “Just as I have the honour to tell your excellency,” said the host.

      The latter, who had no great penetration, did not remark the expression which these words brought upon the countenance of the stranger, who now left the windowsill, on which his elbow had rested, and frowned like a man disturbed all of a sudden.

      “The devil!” muttered he between his teeth; “could Treville have sent this Gascon? He is very young; but a thrust of a sword is a thrust of a sword, whatever may be the age of him that gives it, and one distrusts a boy less than an oldster; a slight obstacle is sufficient to thwart a project.” And the stranger fell into a reverie which lasted some minutes. “Come, mine host,” at length he said, “will you not rid me of this madman? I cannot conscientiously kill him, and yet,” he added with a menacing air, “he much annoys me. Where is he?”

      “In my wife’s chamber, on the first storey, where they are dressing his wounds.”

      “Are his clothes and his bag with him? Has he taken off his doublet?”

      “On the contrary, they are below in the kitchen,” said the host; “but since this young madman annoys you———”

      “Doubtless; he causes a disturbance in your inn, which no respectable people can bear. Go to your room, make out my bill, and give orders to my servants.”

      “What, sir, must you be off?”

      “Yes. I ordered you to saddle my horse; have I not been obeyed?”

      “Yes; and your excellency may see your horse standing under the grand entrance, quite ready for the road.”

      “Very well; then do as I have ordered.”

      “Heyday!” said the host to himself; “can he be afraid of this young boy?” But a commanding look from the stranger cut him short; he humbly bowed, and left the apartment.

      “My lady must not see this strange fellow,” said the stranger; “as she is already late, she must soon pass. I had better mount my horse and go to meet her. If I could only just learn the contents of that letter addressed to Treville.” And thus muttering, the unknown descended to the kitchen.

      In the meantime, the landlord, who doubted not that this youth’s presence drove the stranger from his inn, had gone to his wife’s chamber, and found that d’Artagnan had regained consciousness. Then, whilst he made him comprehend that the police might be severe on him for having attacked a great lord (for, according to the host’s idea, the stranger could be nothing less than a great lord), he persuaded him, in spite of his weakness, to resume his journey.

      D’Artagnan, half stunned, without doublet, his head completely bandaged, arose, and, pushed out by the host, began to descend the stairs; but on reaching the kitchen, the first object he saw was his opponent, who was quietly talking at the door of a heavy carriage, drawn by two large Norman horses. The person with whom he conversed was a woman of from twenty to twenty-two years of age, whose head appeared, through the window of the carriage, like a picture in a frame. We have already said how rapidly d’Artagnan caught the expression of a countenance; he saw, therefore, at the first glance, that the lady was young and attractive. Now, this beauty was the more striking to him, as it was completely different from that of his own southern country. She was a pale, fair person, with long curling hair falling on her shoulders, large blue languishing eyes, rosy lips, and alabaster hands. She conversed with the unknown with great vivacity.

      “So, his eminence commands me———” said she.

      “To return immediately to England, and apprise him, with all speed, whether the duke has left London,” said the unknown.

      “And as to my other instructions?” demanded the fair traveller.

      “They are enclosed in this box, which you will not open until you are on the other side of the Channel.”

      “Good; and you? What are you going to do?”

      “I return to Paris.”

      “Without chastising this insolent boy?” demanded the lady.

      The unknown was about to reply, but ere he could do so, d’Artagnan, who had heard every word, rushed to the doorway. “It is that insolent boy,” he cried, “who chastises others, and I hope that this time he who deserves chastisement will not escape him.”

      “Will not escape him?” echoed the unknown, knitting his brows.

      “No, in the presence of a woman you would hesitate to fly, I presume.”

      “Consider,” said the lady, seeing the gentleman place his hand to his sword, “consider that the slightest delay might ruin all.”

      “You are right,” said the gentleman; “you go your way, and I will go mine;” and, saluting the lady with a bow, he got into the saddle, whilst the coachman whipped his horses. The lady and gentleman therefore went off at a gallop towards the opposite ends of the street.

      “Hollo! your bill!” shouted mine host, whose affection for the traveller was changed to the most profound contempt when he saw him departing without paying.

      “Pay, rascal,” cried the traveller, as he galloped off, to his valet, who threw three or four pieces of silver at the feet of the landlord, and set off at full speed the way his master went.

      “Oh, coward! wretch! false-hearted gentleman!” cried d’Artagnan, rushing after the valet. But he was still too feeble from his wounds to bear such an effort. Scarcely had he gone ten paces, before his ears tingled, a vertigo seized him, a cloud passed before his eyes, and he fell down in the street, with a final cry of “Coward! coward! coward!”

      “He is a sad coward verily,” murmured the host, who now, approaching d’Artagnan, endeavoured to soothe him by this flattery, as the heron in the fable her friend the snail.

      “Yes, a sad coward,” murmured d’Artagnan; “but she is beautiful.”

      “Who is she?” said the landlord.

      “My lady!” murmured d’Artagnan, and again fainted away.

      “Never mind,” said the host; “although I have lost two, at any rate I have secured this one, whom I am sure of keeping for some days; at all events, I shall gain eleven crowns.”

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