“I know it and I have nothing more to say; my arguments lead to nothing; doubtless they are bad, since they have not determined minds so just as yours.”
“Besides,” said Aramis, “had they taken effect it would be still better not to compromise two excellent friends like D’Artagnan and Porthos. Be assured, gentlemen, we shall do you honor in our dying. As for myself, I shall be proud to face the bullets, or even the rope, in company with you, Athos; for you have never seemed to me so grand as you are to-day.”
D’Artagnan said nothing, but, after having gnawed the flower stalk, he began to bite his nails. At last:
“Do you imagine,” he resumed, “that they mean to kill you? And wherefore should they do so? What interest have they in your death? Moreover, you are our prisoners.”
“Fool!” cried Aramis; “knowest thou not, then, Mordaunt? I have but exchanged with him one look, yet that look convinced me that we were doomed.”
“The truth is, I’m very sorry that I did not strangle him as you advised me,” said Porthos.
“Eh! I make no account of the harm Mordaunt can do!” cried D’Artagnan. “Cap de Diou! if he troubles me too much I will crush him, the insect! Do not fly, then. It is useless; for I swear to you that you are as safe here as you were twenty years, ago—you, Athos, in the Rue Ferou, and you, Aramis, in the Rue de Vaugirard.”
“Stop,” cried Athos, extending his hand to one of the grated windows by which the room was lighted; “you will soon know what to expect, for here he is.”
“Who?”
“Mordaunt.”