“Holloa, there!” cried he; “what do you want, you strumpet? What’s your business here, you hussy?”
D’Artagnan threw off his hood, and disengaged his hands from the folds of the cloak. At sight of the mustaches and the naked sword, the poor devil perceived he had to deal with a man. He then concluded it must be an assassin.
“Help! murder! help!” cried he.
“Hold your tongue, you stupid fellow!” said the young man; “I am D’Artagnan; don’t you know me? Where is your master?”
“You, Monsieur d’Artagnan!” cried Grimaud, “impossible.”
“Grimaud,” said Athos, coming out of his apartment in a dressing gown, “Grimaud, I thought I heard you permitting yourself to speak?”
“Ah, monsieur, it is—”
“Silence!”
Grimaud contented himself with pointing D’Artagnan out to his master with his finger.
Athos recognized his comrade, and phlegmatic as he was, he burst into a laugh which was quite excused by the strange masquerade before his eyes—petticoats falling over his shoes, sleeves tucked up, and mustaches stiff with agitation.