“You think of everything,” said D’Artagnan; “and I thank you for Planchet, my dear Athos.”
Raoul stared on hearing this name and looked at the count to be quite sure that it was he whom the lieutenant thus addressed.
“That name sounds strange to you,” said Athos, smiling; “it was my nom de guerre when Monsieur D’Artagnan, two other gallant friends and myself performed some feats of arms at the siege of La Rochelle, under the deceased cardinal and Monsieur de Bassompierre. My friend is still so kind as to address me by that old and well beloved appellation, which makes my heart glad when I hear it.”
“’Tis an illustrious name,” said the lieutenant, “and had one day triumphal honors paid to it.”
“What do you mean, sir?” inquired Raoul.
“You have not forgotten St. Gervais, Athos, and the napkin which was converted into a banner?” and he then related to Raoul the story of the bastion, and Raoul fancied he was listening to one of those deeds of arms belonging to days of chivalry, so gloriously recounted by Tasso and Ariosto.
“D’Artagnan does not tell you, Raoul,” said Athos, in his turn, “that he was reckoned one of the finest swordsmen of his time—a knuckle of iron, a wrist of steel, a sure eye and a glance of fire; that’s what his adversary met with. He was eighteen, only three years older than you are, Raoul, when I saw him set to work, pitted against tried men.”
“And did Monsieur D’Artagnan come off the conqueror?” asked the young man, with glistening eye.
“I killed one man, if I recollect rightly,” replied D’Artagnan, with a look of inquiry directed to Athos; “another I disarmed or wounded, I don’t remember which.”
“Wounded!” said Athos; “it was a phenomenon of skill.”