Mordaunt sustained this new attack without wincing. He stood with his arms folded, apparently as calm as any man could be in such circumstances. If he had not courage he had what is very like it, namely, pride.
Aramis went to Cromwell’s desk, tore off three bits of paper of equal size, wrote on the first his own name and on the others those of his two companions, and presented them open to Mordaunt, who by a movement of his head indicated that he left the matter entirely to Aramis. He then rolled them separately and put them in a hat, which he handed to Mordaunt.
Mordaunt put his hand into the hat, took out one of the three papers and disdainfully dropped it on the table without reading it.
“Ah! serpent,” muttered d’Artagnan, “I would give my chance of a captaincy in the Mousquetaires for that to be my name.”
Aramis opened the paper, and in a voice trembling with hate and vengeance read “D’Artagnan.”
The Gascon uttered a cry of joy and turning to Mordaunt:
“I hope, sir,” said he, “you have no objection to make.”
“None, whatever,” replied the other, drawing his sword and resting the point on his boot.
The moment that d’Artagnan saw that his wish was accomplished and his man would not escape him, he recovered his usual tranquillity. He turned up his cuffs neatly and rubbed the sole of his right boot on the floor, but did not fail, however, to remark that Mordaunt was looking about him in a singular manner.
“Are you ready, sir?” he said at last.
“I was waiting for you, sir,” said Mordaunt, raising his head and casting at his opponent a look it would be impossible to describe.
“Well, then,” said the Gascon, “take care of yourself, for I am not a bad hand at the rapier.”
“Nor I either.”
“So much the better; that sets my mind at rest. Defend yourself.”
“One minute,” said the young man. “Give me your word, gentlemen, that you will not attack me otherwise than one after the other.”
“Is it to have the pleasure of insulting us that you say that, my little viper?”
“No, but to set my mind at rest, as you observed just now.”
“It is for something else than that, I imagine,” muttered d’Artagnan, shaking his head doubtfully.
“On the honor of gentlemen,” said Aramis and Porthos.
“In that case, gentlemen, have the kindness to retire into the corners, so as to give us ample room. We shall require it.”
“Yes, gentlemen,” said d’Artagnan, “we must not leave this person the slightest pretext for behaving badly, which, with all due respect, I fancy he is anxious still to do.”
This new attack made no impression on Mordaunt. The space was cleared, the two lamps placed on Cromwell’s desk, in order that the combatants might have as much light as possible; and the swords crossed.
D’Artagnan was too good a swordsman to trifle with his opponent. He made a rapid and brilliant feint which Mordaunt parried.
“Aha!” he cried with a smile of satisfaction.
And without losing a minute, thinking he saw an opening, he thrust his right in and forced Mordaunt to parry a counter en quarte so fine that the point of the weapon might have turned within a wedding ring.
This time it was Mordaunt who smiled.
“Ah, sir,” said d’Artagnan, “you have a wicked smile. It must have been the devil who taught it you, was it not?”
Mordaunt replied by trying his opponent’s weapon with an amount of strength which the Gascon was astonished to find in a form apparently so feeble; but thanks to a parry no less clever than that which Mordaunt had just achieved, he succeeded in meeting his sword, which slid along his own without touching his chest.
Mordaunt rapidly sprang back a step.
“Ah! you lose ground, you are turning? Well, as you please, I even gain something by it, for I no longer see that wicked smile of yours. You have no idea what a false look you have, particularly when you are afraid. Look at my eyes and you will see what no looking-glass has ever shown you—a frank and honorable countenance.”
To this flow of words, not perhaps in the best taste, but characteristic of d’Artagnan, whose principal object was to divert his opponent’s attention, Mordaunt did not reply, but continuing to turn around he succeeded in changing places with d’Artagnan.
He smiled more and more sarcastically and his smile began to make the Gascon anxious.
“Come, come,” cried d’Artagnan, “we must finish with this,” and in his turn he pressed Mordaunt hard, who continued to lose ground, but evidently on purpose and without letting his sword leave the line for a moment. However, as they were fighting in a room and had not space to go on like that forever, Mordaunt’s foot at last touched the wall, against which he rested his left hand.
“Ah, this time you cannot lose ground, my fine friend!” exclaimed d’Artagnan. “Gentlemen, did you ever see a scorpion pinned to a wall? No. Well, then, you shall see it now.”
In a second d’Artagnan had made three terrible thrusts at Mordaunt, all of which touched, but only pricked him. The three friends looked on, panting and astonished. At last d’Artagnan, having got up too close, stepped back to prepare a fourth thrust, but the moment when, after a fine, quick feint, he was attacking as sharply as lightning, the wall seemed to give way, Mordaunt disappeared through the opening, and d’Artagnan’s blade, caught between the panels, shivered like a sword of glass. D’Artagnan sprang back; the wall had closed again.
Mordaunt, in fact, while defending himself, had manoeuvred so as to reach the secret door by which Cromwell had left, had felt for the knob with his left hand, pressed it and disappeared.
The Gascon uttered a furious imprecation, which was answered by a wild laugh on the other side of the iron panel.
“Help me, gentlemen,” cried d’Artagnan, “we must break
