“That paper must be torn to pieces,” said D’Artagnan, who fancied he read in it his sentence of death.
“On the contrary,” said Athos, “it must be preserved carefully. I would not give up this paper if covered with as many gold pieces.”
“And what will she do now?” asked the young man.
“Why,” replied Athos, carelessly, “she is probably going to write to the cardinal that a damned Musketeer, named Athos, has taken her safe-conduct from her by force; she will advise him in the same letter to get rid of his two friends, Aramis and Porthos, at the same time. The cardinal will remember that these are the same men who have often crossed his path; and then some fine morning he will arrest D’Artagnan, and for fear he should feel lonely, he will send us to keep him company in the Bastille.”
“Go to! It appears to me you make dull jokes, my dear,” said Porthos.
“I do not jest,” said Athos.
“Do you know,” said Porthos, “that to twist that damned Milady’s neck would be a smaller sin than to twist those of these poor devils of Huguenots, who have committed no other crime than singing in French the psalms we sing in Latin?”
“What says the abbé?” asked Athos, quietly.
“I say I am entirely of Porthos’s opinion,” replied Aramis.
“And I, too,” said D’Artagnan.