“Meditate and consider as much as you like,” replied Porthos, who was now quite out of humor at seeing things take this turn.
“We have walked eight paces,” whispered D’Artagnan, “and gone up six steps, so hereabouts is the pavilion called the pavilion of the orangery. The Comte de la Fere cannot be far off, only the doors are locked.”
“That is a slight difficulty,” said Porthos, “and a good push with the shoulders——”
“For God’s sake, Porthos my friend, reserve your feats of strength, or they will not have, when needed, the honor they deserve. Have you not heard that some one is coming here?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that some one will open the doors.”
“But, my dear fellow, if that some one recognizes us, if that some one cries out, we are lost; for you don’t propose, I imagine, that I shall kill that man of the church. That might do if we were dealing with Englishmen or Germans.”
“Oh, may God keep me from it, and you, too!” said D’Artagnan. “The young king would, perhaps, show us some gratitude; but the queen would never forgive us, and it is she whom we have to consider. And then, besides, the useless blood! never! no, never! I have my plan; let me carry it out and we shall laugh.”
“So much the better,” said Porthos; “I feel some need of it.”
“Hush!” said D’Artagnan; “the some one is coming.”