“Bless me!” cried Porthos, making strong efforts to disembarrass himself of d’Artagnan, who was wriggling about his back; “you must be mad to run against people in this manner.”

“Excuse me,” said d’Artagnan, reappearing under the shoulder of the giant, “but I am in such haste—­I was running after someone and—­”

“And do you always forget your eyes when you run?” asked Porthos.

“No,” replied d’Artagnan, piqued, “and thanks to my eyes, I can see what other people cannot see.”

Whether Porthos understood him or did not understand him, giving way to his anger, “Monsieur,” said he, “you stand a chance of getting chastised if you rub Musketeers in this fashion.”

“Chastised, Monsieur!” said d’Artagnan, “the expression is strong.”

“It is one that becomes a man accustomed to look his enemies in the face.”

“Ah, pardieu!  I know full well that you don’t turn your back to yours.”

And the young man, delighted with his joke, went away laughing loudly.

Porthos foamed with rage, and made a movement to rush after d’Artagnan.

“Presently, presently,” cried the latter, “when you haven’t your cloak on.”

“At one o’clock, then, behind the Luxembourg.”

“Very well, at one o’clock, then,” replied d’Artagnan, turning the angle of the street.

But neither in the street he had passed through, nor in the one which his eager glance pervaded, could he see anyone; however slowly the stranger had walked, he was gone on his way, or perhaps had entered some house.  D’Artagnan inquired of everyone he met with, went down to the ferry, came up again by the Rue de Seine, and the Red Cross; but nothing, absolutely nothing!  This chase was, however, advantageous to him in one sense, for in proportion as the perspiration broke from his forehead, his heart began to cool.

He began to reflect upon the events that had passed; they were numerous and inauspicious.  It was scarcely eleven o’clock in the morning, and yet this morning had already brought him into disgrace with M. de Treville, who could not fail to think the manner in which d’Artagnan had left him a little cavalier.

Besides this, he had drawn upon himself two good duels with two men, each capable of killing three d’Artagnans—­with two Musketeers, in short, with two of those beings whom he esteemed so greatly that he placed them in his mind and heart above all other men.

The outlook was sad.  Sure of being killed by Athos, it may easily be understood that the young man was not very uneasy about Porthos.  As hope, however, is the last thing extinguished in the heart of man, he finished by hoping that he might survive, even though with terrible wounds, in both these duels; and in case of surviving, he made the following reprehensions upon his own conduct: 

“What a madcap I was, and what a stupid fellow I am!  That brave and unfortunate Athos was wounded on that very shoulder against which I must run head foremost, like a ram.  The only thing that astonishes me is that he did not strike me dead at once.  He had good cause to do so; the pain I gave him must have been atrocious.  As to Porthos—­oh, as to Porthos, faith, that’s a droll affair!”