afraid.”
“Zounds!” exclaimed D’Artagnan, bounding toward him, “who
says that Athos is afraid?”
“Let him have his say, D’Artagnan,” said Athos, with a smile
of sadness and contempt.
“Is it your decision, Athos?” resumed the Gascon.
“Irrevocably.”
“You hear, sir,” said D’Artagnan, turning to Mordaunt. “The
Comte de la Fere will not do you the honor of fighting with
you. Choose one of us to replace the Comte de la Fere.”
“As long as I don’t fight with him it is the same to me with
whom I fight. Put your names into a hat and draw lots.”
“A good idea,” said D’Artagnan.
“At least that will conciliate us all,” said Aramis.
“I should never have thought of that,” said Porthos, “and
yet it is very simple.”
“Come, Aramis,” said D’Artagnan, “write this for us in those
neat little characters in which you wrote to Marie Michon
that the mother of this gentleman intended to assassinate
the Duke of Buckingham.”
Mordaunt sustained this new attack without wincing. He stood
with his arms folded, apparently as calm as any man could be
in such circumstances. If he had not courage he had what is
very like it, namely, pride.
Aramis went to Cromwell’s desk, tore off three bits of paper
of equal size, wrote on the first his own name and on the
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others those of his two companions, and presented them open
to Mordaunt, who by a movement of his head indicated that he
left the matter entirely to Aramis. He then rolled them
separately and put them in a hat, which he handed to
Mordaunt.
Mordaunt put his hand into the hat, took out one of the
three papers and disdainfully dropped it on the table
without reading it.
“Ah! serpent,” muttered D’Artagnan, “I would give my chance
of a captaincy in the mousquetaires for that to be my name.”
Aramis opened the paper, and in a voice trembling with hate
and vengeance read “D’Artagnan.”
The Gascon uttered a cry of joy and turning to Mordaunt:
“I hope, sir,” said he, “you have no objection to make.”
“None, whatever,” replied the other, drawing his sword and
resting the point on his boot.
The moment that D’Artagnan saw that his wish was
accomplished and his man would not escape him, he recovered
his usual tranquillity. He turned up his cuffs neatly and
rubbed the sole of his right boot on the floor, but did not
fail, however, to remark that Mordaunt was looking about him
in a singular manner.
“Are you ready, sir?” he said at last.
“I was waiting for you, sir,” said Mordaunt, raising his
head and casting at his opponent a look it would be
impossible to describe.
“Well, then,” said the Gascon, “take care of yourself, for I
am not a bad hand at the rapier.”
“Nor I either.”
“So much the better; that sets my mind at rest. Defend
yourself.”
“One minute,” said the young man. “Give me your word,
gentlemen, that you will not attack me otherwise than one
after the other.”
“Is it to have the pleasure of insulting us that you say
that, my little viper?”
“No, but to set my mind at rest, as you observed just now.”
“It is for something else than that, I imagine,” muttered
D’Artagnan, shaking his head doubtfully.
“On the honor of gentlemen,” said Aramis and Porthos.
“In that case, gentlemen, have the kindness to retire into
the corners, so as to give us ample room. We shall require
it.”
“Yes, gentlemen,” said D’Artagnan, “we must not leave this
person the slightest pretext for behaving badly, which, with
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all due respect, I fancy he is anxious still to do.”
This new attack made no impression on Mordaunt. The space
was cleared, the two lamps placed on Cromwell’s desk, in
order that the combatants might have as much light as
possible; and the swords crossed.
D’Artagnan was too good a swordsman to trifle with his
opponent. He made a rapid and brilliant feint which Mordaunt
parried.
“Aha!” he cried with a smile of satisfaction.
And without losing a minute, thinking he saw an opening, he