“That is to say,” replied d’Artagnan, “that you will wait until I have proved myself worthy of it.  Well, be assured,” added he, with the familiarity of a Gascon, “you shall not wait long.”  And he bowed in order to retire, and as if he considered the future in his own hands.

“But wait a minute,” said M. de Treville, stopping him.  “I promised you a letter for the director of the Academy.  Are you too proud to accept it, young gentleman?”

“No, sir,” said d’Artagnan; “and I will guard it so carefully that I will be sworn it shall arrive at its address, and woe be to him who shall attempt to take it from me!”

M. de Treville smiled at this flourish; and leaving his young man compatriot in the embrasure of the window, where they had talked together, he seated himself at a table in order to write the promised letter of recommendation.  While he was doing this, d’Artagnan, having no better employment, amused himself with beating a march upon the window and with looking at the Musketeers, who went away, one after another, following them with his eyes until they disappeared.

M. de Treville, after having written the letter, sealed it, and rising, approached the young man in order to give it to him.  But at the very moment when d’Artagnan stretched out his hand to receive it, M. de Treville was highly astonished to see his protege make a sudden spring, become crimson with passion, and rush from the cabinet crying, “S’blood, he shall not escape me this time!”

“And who?” asked M. de Treville.

“He, my thief!” replied d’Artagnan.  “Ah, the traitor!” and he disappeared.

“The devil take the madman!” murmured M. de Treville, “unless,” added he, “this is a cunning mode of escaping, seeing that he had failed in his purpose!”

4 The shoulder of Athos, the baldric of Porthos and the handkerchief of Aramis

D’Artagnan, in a state of fury, crossed the antechamber at three bounds, and was darting toward the stairs, which he reckoned upon descending four at a time, when, in his heedless course, he ran head foremost against a Musketeer who was coming out of one of M. de Treville’s private rooms, and striking his shoulder violently, made him utter a cry, or rather a howl.

“Excuse me,” said d’Artagnan, endeavoring to resume his course, “excuse me, but I am in a hurry.”

Scarcely had he descended the first stair, when a hand of iron seized him by the belt and stopped him.

“You are in a hurry?” said the Musketeer, as pale as a sheet.  “Under that pretense you run against me!  You say.  ‘Excuse me,’ and you believe that is sufficient?  Not at all my young man.  Do you fancy because you have heard Monsieur de Treville speak to us a little cavalierly today that other people are to treat us as he speaks to us?  Undeceive yourself, comrade, you are not Monsieur de Treville.”