folding his arms, stood trembling with rage.
These proceedings made D’Artagnan and Porthos draw back.
D’Artagnan did not draw his sword; Porthos put his back into
the sheath.
“Never!” exclaimed Athos, raising his right hand to Heaven,
“never! I swear before God, who seeth us, and who, in the
darkness of this night heareth us, never shall my sword
cross yours, never my eye express a glance of anger, nor my
heart a throb of hatred, at you. We lived together, we
loved, we hated together; we shed, we mingled our blood
together, and too probably, I may still add, that there may
be yet a bond between us closer even than that of
friendship; perhaps there may be the bond of crime; for we
four, we once did condemn, judge and slay a human being whom
we had not any right to cut off from this world, although
apparently fitter for hell than for this life. D’Artagnan, I
have always loved you as my son; Porthos, we slept six years
side by side; Aramis is your brother as well as mine, and
Aramis has once loved you, as I love you now and as I have
ever loved you. What can Cardinal Mazarin be to us, to four
men who compelled such a man as Richelieu to act as we
pleased? What is such or such a prince to us, who fixed the
diadem upon a great queen’s head? D’Artagnan, I ask your
pardon for having yesterday crossed swords with you; Aramis
does the same to Porthos; now hate me if you can; but for my
own part, I shall ever, even if you do hate me, retain
esteem and friendship for you. I repeat my words, Aramis,
and then, if you desire it, and if they desire it, let us
separate forever from our old friends.”
There was a solemn, though momentary silence, which was
broken by Aramis.
“I swear,” he said, with a calm brow and kindly glance, but
in a voice still trembling with recent emotion, “I swear
that I no longer bear animosity to those who were once my
friends. I regret that I ever crossed swords with you,
Porthos; I swear not only that it shall never again be
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pointed at your breast, but that in the bottom of my heart
there will never in future be the slightest hostile
sentiment; now, Athos, come.”
Athos was about to retire.
“Oh! no! no! do not go away!” exclaimed D’Artagnan, impelled
by one of those irresistible impulses which showed the
nobility of his nature, the native brightness of his
character; “I swear that I would give the last drop of my
blood and the last fragment of my limbs to preserve the
friendship of such a friend as you, Athos — of such a man
as you, Aramis.” And he threw himself into the arms of
Athos.
“My son!” exclaimed Athos, pressing him in his arms.
“And as for me,” said Porthos, “I swear nothing, but I’m
choked. Forsooth! If I were obliged to fight against you, I
think I should allow myself to be pierced through and
through, for I never loved any one but you in the wide
world;” and honest Porthos burst into tears as he embraced
Athos.
“My friends,” said Athos, “this is what I expected from such
hearts as yours. Yes, I have said it and I now repeat it:
our destinies are irrevocably united, although we now pursue
divergent roads. I respect your convictions, and whilst we
fight for opposite sides, let us remain friends. Ministers,
princes, kings, will pass away like mountain torrents; civil
war, like a forest flame; but we — we shall remain; I have
a presentiment that we shall.”
“Yes,” replied D’Artagnan, “let us still be musketeers, and
let us retain as our battle-standard that famous napkin of
the bastion St. Gervais, on which the great cardinal had
three fleurs-de-lis embroidered.”
“Be it so,” cried Aramis. “Cardinalists or Frondeurs, what
matters it? Let us meet again as capital seconds in a duel,
devoted friends in business, merry companions in our ancient
pleasures.”
“And whenever,” added Athos, “we meet in battle, at this