“Excuse me,” said d’Artagnan, endeavoring to resume his course, “excuse me, but I am in a hurry.”
Scarcely had he descended the first stair, when a hand of iron seized him by the belt and stopped him.
“You are in a hurry?” said the Musketeer, as pale as a sheet. “Under that pretense you run against me! You say. ‘Excuse me,’ and you believe that is sufficient? Not at all my young man. Do you fancy because you have heard Monsieur de Treville speak to us a little cavalierly today that other people are to treat us as he speaks to us? Undeceive yourself, comrade, you are not Monsieur de Treville.”
“My faith!” replied d’Artagnan, recognizing Athos, who, after the dressing performed by the doctor, was returning to his own apartment. “I did not do it intentionally, and not doing it intentionally, I said ‘Excuse me.’ It appears to me that this is quite enough. I repeat to you, however, and this time on my word of honor–I think perhaps too often–that I am in haste, great haste. Leave your hold, then, I beg of you, and let me go where my business calls me.”
“Monsieur,” said Athos, letting him go, “you are not polite; it is easy to perceive that you come from a distance.”
D’Artagnan had already strode down three or four stairs, but at Athos’s last remark he stopped short.
“MORBLEU, monsieur!” said he, “however far I may come, it is not you who can give me a lesson in good manners, I warn you.”
“Perhaps,” said Athos.
“Ah! If I were not in such haste, and if I were not running after someone,” said d’Artagnan.
“Monsieur Man-in-a-hurry, you can find me without running–ME, you understand?”
“And where, I pray you?”
“Near the Carmes-Deschaux.”
“At what hour?”
“About noon.”
“About noon? That will do; I will be there.”
“Endeavor not to make me wait; for at quarter past twelve I will cut off your ears as you run.”
“Good!” cried d’Artagnan, “I will be there ten minutes before twelve.” And he set off running as if the devil possessed him, hoping that he might yet find the stranger, whose slow pace could not have carried him far.
But at the street gate, Porthos was talking with the soldier on guard. Between the two talkers there was just enough room for a man to pass. D’Artagnan thought it would suffice for him, and he sprang forward like a dart between them. But d’Artagnan had reckoned without the wind. As he was about to pass, the wind blew out Porthos’s long cloak, and d’Artagnan rushed straight into the middle of it. Without doubt, Porthos had reasons for not abandoning this part of his vestments, for instead of quitting his hold on the flap in his hand, he pulled it toward him, so that d’Artagnan rolled himself up in the velvet by a movement of rotation explained by the persistency of Porthos.
D’Artagnan, hearing the Musketeer swear, wished to escape from the cloak, which blinded him, and sought to find his way from under the folds of it. He was particularly anxious to avoid marring the freshness of the magnificent baldric we are acquainted with; but on timidly opening his eyes, he found himself with his nose fixed between the two shoulders of Porthos–that is to say, exactly upon the baldric.
Alas, like most things in this world which have nothing in their favor but appearances, the baldric was glittering with gold in the front, but was nothing but simple buff behind. Vainglorious as he was, Porthos could not afford to have a baldric wholly of gold, but had at least half. One could comprehend the necessity of the cold and the urgency of the cloak.
“Bless me!” cried Porthos, making strong efforts to disembarrass himself of d’Artagnan, who was wriggling about his back; “you must be mad to run against people in this manner.”
“Excuse me,” said d’Artagnan, reappearing under the shoulder of the giant, “but I am in such haste–I was running after someone and–”
“And do you always forget your eyes when you run?” asked Porthos.
“No,” replied d’Artagnan, piqued, “and thanks to my eyes, I can see what other people cannot see.”