“Put up your sword,” said Raoul, “you know perfectly well that, until our journey is at an end, every demonstration of that nature is useless. Why do you distill into the heart of the man you term your friend all the bitterness that infects your own? As regards myself, you wish to arouse a feeling of deep dislike against a man of honor—my father’s friend and my own: and as for the count you wish him to love one who is destined for your master. Really, monsieur, I should regard you as a coward, and a traitor too, if I did not, with greater justice, regard you as a madman.”
“Monsieur,” exclaimed De Wardes, exasperated, “I was deceived, I find, in terming you a pedagogue. The tone you assume, and the style which is peculiarly your own, is that of a Jesuit, and not of a gentleman. Discontinue, I beg, whenever I am present, this style I complain of, and the tone also. I hate M. d’Artagnan because he was guilty of a cowardly act towards my father.”
“You lie, monsieur,” said Raoul, coolly.
“You give me the lie, monsieur?” exclaimed De Wardes.
“Why not, if what you assert is untrue?”
“You give me the lie and will not draw your sword?”
“I have resolved, monsieur, not to kill you until Madame shall have been delivered safely into her husband’s hands.”
“Kill me! Believe me, monsieur, your schoolmaster’s rod does not kill so easily.”
“No,” replied Raoul, sternly, “but M. d’Artagnan’s sword kills; and, not only do I possess his sword, but he has himself taught me how to use it: and with that sword, when a befitting time arrives, I will avenge his name—-a name you have dishonored.”
“Take care, monsieur,” exclaimed De Wardes; “if you do not immediately give me satisfaction, I will avail myself of every means to revenge myself.”