“You are in a hurry, sir count,” said D’Artagnan.
“But what would you have us to do here, now that the king is dead?”
“Go, sir count,” replied D’Artagnan, carelessly; “you see nothing to keep you a little longer in England? Well, for my part, I, a bloodthirsty ruffian, who can go and stand close to a scaffold, in order to have a better view of the king’s execution—I remain.”
Athos turned pale. Every reproach his friend uttered struck deeply in his heart.
“Ah! you remain in London?” said Porthos.
“Yes. And you?”
“Hang it!” said Porthos, a little perplexed between the two, “I suppose, as I came with you, I must go away with you. I can’t leave you alone in this abominable country.”
“Thanks, my worthy friend. So I have a little adventure to propose to you when the count is gone. I want to find out who was the man in the mask, who so obligingly offered to cut the king’s throat.”
“A man in a mask?” cried Athos. “You did not let the executioner escape, then?”
“The executioner is still in the cellar, where, I presume, he has had an interview with mine host’s bottles. But you remind me. Mousqueton!”