“That is too much, M. d’Artagnan,” exclaimed many voices, with animation.
“No, gentlemen,” said the captain. “And now, M. de Wardes, I hope all is finished between us, and that you will have no further occasion to speak ill of me again. Do you consider it completely settled?”
De Wardes bowed, and muttered to himself inarticulately.
“I trust also,” said d’Artagnan, approaching the young man closely, “that you will no longer speak ill of anyone, as it seems you have the unfortunate habit of doing; for a man so puritanically conscientious as you are, who can reproach an old soldier for a youthful freak five-and-thirty years after it happened, will allow me to ask whether you, who advocate such excessive purity of conscience, will undertake on your side to do nothing contrary either to conscience or the principle of honor. And now, listen attentively to what I am going to say, M. de Wardes, in conclusion. Take care that no tale, with which your name may be associated, reaches my ear.”
“Monsieur,” said de Wardes, “it is useless threatening to no purpose.”
“I have not yet finished, M. de Wardes, and you must listen to me still further.” The circle of listeners, full of eager curiosity, drew closer. “You spoke just now of the honor of a woman, and of the honor of your father. We were glad to hear you speak in that manner; for it is pleasing to think that such a sentiment of delicacy and rectitude, and which did not exist, it seems, in our minds, lives in our children; and it is delightful, too, to see a young man, at an age when men from habit become the destroyers of the honor of women, respect and defend it.”
De Wardes bit his lip and clenched his hands, evidently much disturbed to learn how this discourse, the commencement of which was announced in so threatening a manner, would terminate.
“How did it happen, then, that you allowed yourself to say to M. de Bragelonne that he did not know who his mother was?”
Raoul’s eyes flashed, as, darting forward, he exclaimed—“Chevalier, this is a personal affair of my own!” At which exclamation, a smile, full of malice, passed across de Wardes’s face.
D’Artagnan put Raoul aside, saying—“Do not interrupt me, young man.” And looking at de Wardes in an authoritative manner, he continued:—“I am now dealing with a matter which cannot be settled by means of the sword. I discuss it before men of honor, all of whom have more than once had their swords in their hands in affairs of honor. I selected them expressly. These gentlemen well know that every secret for which men fight ceases to be a secret. I again put my question to M. de Wardes. What was the subject of conversation when you offended this young man, in offending his father and mother at the same time?”
“It seems to me,” returned de Wardes, “that liberty of speech is allowed, when it is supported by every means which a man of courage has at his disposal.”
“Tell me what the means are by which a man of courage can sustain a slanderous expression.”
“The sword.”
“You fail, not only in logic, in your argument, but in religion and honor. You expose the lives of many others, without referring to your own, which seems to be full of hazard. Besides, fashions pass away, Monsieur, and the fashion of duelling has passed away, without referring in any way to the edicts of His Majesty which forbid it. Therefore, in order to be consistent with your own chivalrous notions, you will at once apologize to M. de Bragelonne; you will tell him how much you regret having spoken so lightly, and that the nobility and purity of his race are inscribed, not in his heart alone, but still more in every action of his life. You will do and say this, M. de Wardes, as I, an old officer, did and said just now to your boy’s moustache.”
“And if I refuse?” inquired de Wardes.
“In that case the result will be—”
“That which you think you will prevent,” said de Wardes, laughing; “the result will be that your conciliatory address will end in a violation of the king’s prohibition.”
“Not so,” said the captain, “you are quite mistaken.”
“What will be the result, then?”
“The result will be that I shall go to the king, with whom I am on tolerably good terms, to whom I have been happy enough to render certain services, dating from a period when you were not born, and who, at my request, has just sent me an order in blank for M. Baisemeaux de Montlezun, governor of the Bastille; and I shall say to the king: ‘Sire, a man has in a most cowardly way insulted M. de Bragelonne by insulting his mother; I have written this man’s name upon the lettre de cachet which Your Majesty has been kind enough to give me, so that M. de Wardes is in the Bastille for three years.’ ” And d’Artagnan, drawing the order signed by the king from his pocket, held it towards de Wardes.
Remarking that the young man was not quite convinced, and received the warning as an idle threat, he shrugged his shoulders and walked leisurely towards the table, upon which lay a writing-case and a pen, the length of which would have terrified the topographical Porthos. De Wardes then saw that nothing could well be more seriously intended than the threat in question, for the Bastille, even at that period, was already held in dread. He advanced a step towards Raoul, and, in an almost unintelligible voice, said—“I offer my apologies in the terms which M. d’Artagnan just now dictated, and which I am forced to make to you.”
“One moment, Monsieur,” said the musketeer, with the greatest tranquillity, “you mistake the terms of the apology. I did not say, ‘and which I am forced
