“I think I can now understand it, from this note, which has arrived here in so singular a manner. Monsieur de Bragelonne says that a friend will call.”
“I am his friend. I am the person he alludes to.”
“For the purpose of giving me a challenge?”
“Precisely.”
“And he complains that I have insulted him?”
“Mortally.”
“In what way, may I ask; for his conduct is so mysterious, that, at least, it needs some explanation?”
“Monsieur,” replied Porthos, “my friend cannot but be right; and, as far as his conduct is concerned, if it be mysterious, as you say, you have only yourself to blame for it.” Porthos pronounced these words with an amount of confidence which, for a man who was unaccustomed to his ways, must have revealed an infinity of sense.
“Mystery, so be it; but what is all the mystery about?” said Saint-Aignan.
“You will think it the best, perhaps,” Porthos replied, with a low bow, “if I do not enter in to particulars.”