“It is precisely this Monsieur Mordaunt whom we are going to join at Boulogne and with whom we cross to England.”
“Well, suppose instead of joining this Monsieur Mordaunt we were to go and join our friends?” said Porthos, with a gesture fierce enough to have frightened an army.
“I did think of it, but this letter has neither date nor postmark.”
“True,” said Porthos. And he began to wander about the room like a man beside himself, gesticulating and half drawing his sword out of the scabbard.
As to D’Artagnan, he remained standing like a man in consternation, with the deepest affliction depicted on his face.
“Ah, this is not right; Athos insults us; he wishes to die alone; it is bad, bad, bad.”
Mousqueton, witnessing this despair, melted into tears in a corner of the room.
“Come,” said D’Artagnan, “all this leads to nothing. Let us go on. We will embrace Raoul, and perhaps he will have news of Athos.”
“Stop—an idea!” cried Porthos; “indeed, my dear D’Artagnan, I don’t know how you manage, but you are always full of ideas; let us go and embrace Raoul.”
“Woe to that man who should happen to contradict my master at this moment,” said Mousqueton to himself; “I wouldn’t give a farthing for his life.”