“Hollo, sir!” he cried; “you, sir, who hide yourself behind the shutter—yes, you! tell me what you are laughing at, and we will laugh together.”
The gentleman slowly turned his eyes from the steed to his rider, as if it required some time to comprehend that these strange reproaches were addressed to himself; then, when he could no longer doubt it, he slightly knit his brows, and, after a pretty long pause, with an accent of irony and insolence impossible to describe, answered d’Artagnan, “I am not speaking to you, sir.”
“But I am speaking to you,” cried the young man, exasperated by this mixture of insolence and good manners—this polite contempt.
The unknown regarded him yet a moment with a slight smile, and then leaving the window, slowly sauntered out of the inn, and stationed himself opposite the horse, at two paces from d’Artagnan. His calm face and jeering aspect redoubled the mirth of his companions, who still remained at the window. D’Artagnan, seeing him come out, drew his sword a foot out of its scabbard.
“This horse decidedly is, or rather has been, a buttercup,” continued the unknown, pursuing his remarks, and addressing his auditors at the window, without appearing to notice the exasperation of d’Artagnan, who, nevertheless, swelled and strutted between them; “it is of a colour,” he continued, “well known in botany, but as yet very rare amongst horses.”
“A man may laugh at a horse, who would not dare to laugh at its master,” cried the disciple of Treville with fury.
“I do not often laugh, sir,” answered the unknown, “as you may yourself discover by the expression of my countenance; but yet I mean to preserve the right of laughing when I please.”
“And I,” roared out d’Artagnan, “do not permit any one to laugh when I do not please.”
“Really, sir!” continued the unknown, more quietly than ever; “well, that is sound sense;” and turning on his heel, he essayed to re-enter the inn by the front door, opposite which d’Artagnan, on arriving, had observed a horse ready saddled.
But d’Artagnan was not the man to let any one who had had the insolence to mock him thus escape; he therefore drew his sword and pursued him, exclaiming, “Turn, turn, Master Jester, that I may not strike you behind!”
“Strike me!” said the other, quickly turning round, and regarding the youth with as much astonishment as contempt; “go along with you, my dear boy; you are mad.” Then, in a low voice, as if he were speaking to himself, he added, “It is annoying: what a prize for his majesty, who is everywhere seeking fire-eaters to recruit his guards.”
He had scarcely finished, when d’Artagnan made such a furious thrust at him, that, had he not jumped back briskly, it is probable the jest would have been his last. Perceiving now, however, that the affair was beyond a joke, the unknown drew his sword, saluted his adversary, and gravely put himself on guard; but at the same moment his two auditors, accompanied by the host, fell pell-mell upon d’Artagnan, with sticks, shovels, and tongs. This caused such a complete diversion of the attack, that, whilst d’Artagnan himself turned to face this shower of blows, his opponent put up his sword with the same calm as before, and, from an actor, became a spectator of the combat—a character which he supported with the same imperturbability, yet all the time muttering, “Plague upon these Gascons! Put him on his orange-coloured horse, and let him go.”
“Not before I have slain you, you coward!” cried d’Artagnan, all the time making the best resistance he could, and not yielding one step to his three opponents, who showered their blows upon him.
“Yet another gasconade!” murmured the gentleman; “upon my word these Gascons are incorrigible; keep up the dance, since he actually wishes it; when he is tired he will say that he has had enough.”
But the stranger did not yet know with what a stubborn personage he had to deal. D’Artagnan was not the man ever to sue for quarter. The contest therefore continued for some moments longer, until at last, completely worn out, d’Artagnan dropped his sword, which was broken in two by a blow from a stick, while at the same instant another blow, which cut open his forehead, stretched him on the ground almost senseless.
It was now that all the burghers hastened to the scene of action. Fearing a disturbance, the landlord, assisted by his servants, carried the wounded man into the kitchen, where some care was given him. As for the stranger, he returned to the window, and viewed the crowd with evident marks of impatience, seeming rather annoyed at their refusal to go away.
“Well, how is that madman now?” said he, turning, and addressing the host, who came to inquire in what state his guest was.
“Is your excellency safe and well?” demanded the host.
“Yes, perfectly so, mine host; but I wish to know what is become of this youth.”
“He is better,” replied the host; “but he was quite senseless.”
“Indeed!” said the gentleman.
“But before he quite lost his senses, he rallied all his strength to challenge and defy you,” added the landlord.
“Well, this young fellow is the very devil himself,” said the gentleman.
“Oh, no, your excellency, oh, no,” replied the host, with a contemptuous grin, “he is not the devil, for while he was senseless we rummaged his outfit, and in his bundle we found but one shirt, and in his pocket only twelve crowns, which fact, however, did not prevent his saying, just before he fainted, that, had this happened in Paris, you should quickly have repented it, but as it has taken place here you will not have to repent it until later.”
“Therefore,” coolly observed the stranger, “he doubtless is a prince of the blood in disguise.”
“I give you this information, sir,” said the host, “that you may keep yourself on your guard.”
“And did he not name any one in his anger?”
“Yes, he slapped his pocket, and said, ‘We shall see what M. de Treville will say to this insult offered to his protégé.’”
“M. de Treville?” said the unknown, becoming more attentive; “he slapped his pocket, and mentioned the name of M. de Treville?—Let us see, my good host: whilst this young man was senseless, you did not fail, I am sure, to examine that pocket: what did it contain?”
“A letter, addressed to M. de Treville, captain of the Musketeers.”
“Really?”
“Just as I have the honour to tell your excellency,” said the host.
The latter, who had no great penetration, did not remark the expression which these words brought upon the countenance of the stranger, who now left the windowsill, on which his elbow had rested, and frowned like a man disturbed all of a sudden.
“The devil!” muttered he between his teeth; “could Treville have sent this Gascon? He is very young; but a thrust of a sword is a thrust of a sword, whatever may be the age of him that gives it, and one distrusts a boy less than an oldster; a slight obstacle is sufficient to thwart a project.” And the stranger fell into a reverie which lasted some minutes. “Come, mine host,” at length he said, “will you not rid me of this madman? I cannot conscientiously kill him, and yet,” he added with a menacing air, “he much annoys me. Where is he?”
“In my wife’s chamber, on the first storey, where they are dressing his wounds.”
“Are his clothes and his bag with him? Has he taken off his doublet?”
“On the contrary, they are below in the kitchen,” said the host; “but since this young madman annoys