“The smallpox!  That’s a great story to tell me, Porthos!  Sick of the smallpox at his age!  No, no; but wounded without doubt, killed, perhaps.  Ah, if I knew!  S’blood!  Messieurs Musketeers, I will not have this haunting of bad places, this quarreling in the streets, this swordplay at the crossways; and above all, I will not have occasion given for the cardinal’s Guards, who are brave, quiet, skillful men who never put themselves in a position to be arrested, and who, besides, never allow themselves to be arrested, to laugh at you!  I am sure of it—­they would prefer dying on the spot to being arrested or taking back a step.  To save yourselves, to scamper away, to flee—­that is good for the king’s Musketeers!”

Porthos and Aramis trembled with rage.  They could willingly have strangled M. de Treville, if, at the bottom of all this, they had not felt it was the great love he bore them which made him speak thus.  They stamped upon the carpet with their feet; they bit their lips till the blood came, and grasped the hilts of their swords with all their might.  All without had heard, as we have said, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis called, and had guessed, from M. de Treville’s tone of voice, that he was very angry about something.  Ten curious heads were glued to the tapestry and became pale with fury; for their ears, closely applied to the door, did not lose a syllable of what he said, while their mouths repeated as he went on, the insulting expressions of the captain to all the people in the antechamber.  In an instant, from the door of the cabinet to the street gate, the whole hotel was boiling.

“Ah!  The king’s Musketeers are arrested by the Guards of the cardinal, are they?” continued M. de Treville, as furious at heart as his soldiers, but emphasizing his words and plunging them, one by one, so to say, like so many blows of a stiletto, into the bosoms of his auditors.  “What!  Six of his Eminence’s Guards arrest six of his Majesty’s Musketeers!  MORBLEU!  My part is taken!  I will go straight to the louvre; I will give in my resignation as captain of the king’s Musketeers to take a lieutenancy in the cardinal’s Guards, and if he refuses me, morbleu!  I will turn abbe.”

At these words, the murmur without became an explosion; nothing was to be heard but oaths and blasphemies.  The MORBLEUS, the sang DIEUS, the MORTS touts Les DIABLES, crossed one another in the air.  D’Artagnan looked for some tapestry behind which he might hide himself, and felt an immense inclination to crawl under the table.

“Well, my Captain,” said Porthos, quite beside himself, “the truth is that we were six against six.  But we were not captured by fair means; and before we had time to draw our swords, two of our party were dead, and Athos, grievously wounded, was very little better.  For you know Athos.  Well, Captain, he endeavored twice to get up, and fell again twice.  And we did not surrender—­no!