thrust his right in and forced Mordaunt to parry a counter
en quarte so fine that the point of the weapon might have
turned within a wedding ring.
This time it was Mordaunt who smiled.
“Ah, sir,” said D’Artagnan, “you have a wicked smile. It
must have been the devil who taught it you, was it not?”
Mordaunt replied by trying his opponent’s weapon with an
amount of strength which the Gascon was astonished to find
in a form apparently so feeble; but thanks to a parry no
less clever than that which Mordaunt had just achieved, he
succeeded in meeting his sword, which slid along his own
without touching his chest.
Mordaunt rapidly sprang back a step.
“Ah! you lose ground, you are turning? Well, as you please,
I even gain something by it, for I no longer see that wicked
smile of yours. You have no idea what a false look you have,
particularly when you are afraid. Look at my eyes and you
will see what no looking-glass has ever shown you — a frank
and honorable countenance.”
To this flow of words, not perhaps in the best taste, but
characteristic of D’Artagnan, whose principal object was to
divert his opponent’s attention, Mordaunt did not reply, but
continuing to turn around he succeeded in changing places
with D’Artagnan.
He smiled more and more sarcastically and his smile began to
make the Gascon anxious.
“Come, come,” cried D’Artagnan, “we must finish with this,”
and in his turn he pressed Mordaunt hard, who continued to
lose ground, but evidently on purpose and without letting
his sword leave the line for a moment. However, as they were
fighting in a room and had not space to go on like that
forever, Mordaunt’s foot at last touched the wall, against
which he rested his left hand.
“Ah, this time you cannot lose ground, my fine friend!”
exclaimed D’Artagnan. “Gentlemen, did you ever see a
scorpion pinned to a wall? No. Well, then, you shall see it
now.”
In a second D’Artagnan had made three terrible thrusts at
Mordaunt, all of which touched, but only pricked him. The
three friends looked on, panting and astonished. At last
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Dumas, Alexandre – Twenty Years After
D’Artagnan, having got up too close, stepped back to prepare
a fourth thrust, but the moment when, after a fine, quick
feint, he was attacking as sharply as lightning, the wall
seemed to give way, Mordaunt disappeared through the
opening, and D’Artagnan’s blade, caught between the panels,
shivered like a sword of glass. D’Artagnan sprang back; the
wall had closed again.
Mordaunt, in fact, while defending himself, had manoeuvred
so as to reach the secret door by which Cromwell had left,
had felt for the knob with his left hand, pressed it and
disappeared.
The Gascon uttered a furious imprecation, which was answered
by a wild laugh on the other side of the iron panel.
“Help me, gentlemen,” cried D’Artagnan, “we must break in
this door.”
“It is the devil in person!” said Aramis, hastening forward.
“He escapes us,” growled Porthos, pushing his huge shoulder
against the hinges, but in vain. “‘Sblood! he escapes us.”
“So much the better,” muttered Athos.
“I thought as much,” said D’Artagnan, wasting his strength
in useless efforts. “Zounds, I thought as much when the
wretch kept moving around the room. I thought he was up to
something.”
“It’s a misfortune, to which his friend, the devil, treats
us,” said Aramis.
“It’s a piece of good fortune sent from Heaven,” said Athos,
evidently much relieved.
“Really!” said D’Artagnan, abandoning the attempt to burst
open the panel after several ineffectual attempts, “Athos, I
cannot imagine how you can talk to us in that way. You
cannot understand the position we are in. In this kind of
game, not to kill is to let one’s self be killed. This fox
of a fellow will be sending us a hundred iron-sided beasts
who will pick us off like sparrows in this place. Come,
come, we must be off. If we stay here five minutes more
there’s an end of us.”
“Yes, you are right.”
“But where shall we go?” asked Porthos.
“To the hotel, to be sure, to get our baggage and horses;