D’Artagnan frowned, and sought the face of Athos; Porthos looked furious, and twirled his huge moustaches; Athos lifted his eyebrows, and the habitual melancholy of his noble and patrician face became much increased.
“What say you to this, friend Athos?” inquired D’Artagnan.
Without a word Athos took the Globe from the hand of Aramis, and studied it.
“One Beerbohm Tree essays your part, dear D’Artagnan; but be calm, be calm! He may mean well.”
D’Artagnan drank a bumper of champagne, but his hand trembled, and a terrible light gleamed in his eyes.
“And we—we are all in the play,” continued Athos. He started, and grew pale. “And Milady also,” he hissed.
“And Richelieu?” inquired Porthos.
“They are all there.”
Porthos shut his teeth like a rat-trap.
“It will be like old times,” he said.