In addition to this, d’Artagnan possessed that invincible stock of resolution which the counsels of his father had implanted in his heart: “Endure nothing from anyone but the king, the cardinal, and Monsieur de Treville.” He flew, then, rather than walked, toward the convent of the Carmes Dechausses, or rather Deschaux, as it was called at that period, a sort of building without a window, surrounded by barren fields–an accessory to the Preaux-Clercs, and which was generally employed as the place for the duels of men who had no time to lose.
When d’Artagnan arrived in sight of the bare spot of ground which extended along the foot of the monastery, Athos had been waiting about five minutes, and twelve o’clock was striking. He was, then, as punctual as the Samaritan woman, and the most rigorous casuist with regard to duels could have nothing to say.
Athos, who still suffered grievously from his wound, though it had been dressed anew by M. de Treville’s surgeon, was seated on a post and waiting for his adversary with hat in hand, his feather even touching the ground.
“Monsieur,” said Athos, “I have engaged two of my friends as seconds; but these two friends are not yet come, at which I am astonished, as it is not at all their custom.”
“I have no seconds on my part, monsieur,” said d’Artagnan; “for having only arrived yesterday in Paris, I as yet know no one but Monsieur de Treville, to whom I was recommended by my father, who has the honor to be, in some degree, one of his friends.”
Athos reflected for an instant. “You know no one but Monsieur de Treville?” he asked.
“Yes, monsieur, I know only him.”
“Well, but then,” continued Athos, speaking half to himself, “if I kill you, I shall have the air of a boy-slayer.”
“Not too much so,” replied d’Artagnan, with a bow that was not deficient in dignity, “since you do me the honor to draw a sword with me while suffering from a wound which is very inconvenient.”
“Very inconvenient, upon my word; and you hurt me devilishly, I can tell you. But I will take the left hand–it is my custom in such circumstances. Do not fancy that I do you a favor; I use either hand easily. And it will be even a disadvantage to you; a left-handed man is very troublesome to people who are not prepared for it. I regret I did not inform you sooner of this circumstance.”
“You have truly, monsieur,” said d’Artagnan, bowing again, “a courtesy, for which, I assure you, I am very grateful.”
“You confuse me,” replied Athos, with his gentlemanly air; “let us talk of something else, if you please. Ah, s’blood, how you have hurt me! My shoulder quite burns.”
“If you would permit me–” said d’Artagnan, with timidity.
“What, monsieur?”
“I have a miraculous balsam for wounds–a balsam given to me by my mother and of which I have made a trial upon myself.”
“Well?”
“Well, I am sure that in less than three days this balsam would cure you; and at the end of three days, when you would be cured– well, sir, it would still do me a great honor to be your man.”
D’Artagnan spoke these words with a simplicity that did honor to his courtesy, without throwing the least doubt upon his courage.
“PARDIEU, monsieur!” said Athos, “that’s a proposition that pleases me; not that I can accept it, but a league off it savors of the gentleman. Thus spoke and acted the gallant knights of the time of Charlemagne, in whom every cavalier ought to seek his model. Unfortunately, we do not live in the times of the great emperor, we live in the times of the cardinal; and three days hence, however well the secret might be guarded, it would be known, I say, that we were to fight, and our combat would be prevented. I think these fellows will never come.”
“If you are in haste, monsieur,” said d’Artagnan, with the same simplicity with which a moment before he had proposed to him to put off the duel for three days, “and if it be your will to dispatch me at once, do not inconvenience yourself, I pray you.”