“What do you mean, Grimaud?” he exclaimed.
“That Milady’s son has left England, that he is in France, on his road to Paris, if he be not here already.”
“The devil he is!” said Porthos. “Are you sure of it?”
“Certain,” replied Grimaud.
This announcement was received in silence. Grimaud was so breathless, so exhausted, that he had fallen back upon a chair. Athos filled a beaker with champagne and gave it to him.
“Well, after all,” said D’Artagnan, “supposing that he lives, that he comes to Paris; we have seen many other such. Let him come.”
“Yes,” echoed Porthos, glancing affectionately at his sword, still hanging on the wall; “we can wait for him; let him come.”
“Moreover, he is but a child,” said Aramis.
Grimaud rose.
“A child!” he exclaimed. “Do you know what he has done, this child? Disguised as a monk he discovered the whole history in confession from the executioner of Bethune, and having confessed him, after having learned everything from him, he gave him absolution by planting this dagger into his heart. See, it is on fire yet with his hot blood, for it is not thirty hours since it was drawn from the wound.”