“To your plan,” cried D’Artagnan. “The night wanes and the playhouse opens its doors ere long.”
“We must be there at the rise of the curtain. We will disguise ourselves.”
“Nay, no disguise. There is nothing to fear.”
“So be it, then. We will take our place among the spectators, and at a given signal from D’Artagnan we will force a way to the stage. Then each man must draw and put a quarrel on the mummer who is impersonating him. If they do not instantly yield, their fate be upon their own shoulders.”
“I pray they may draw their weapons,” said Porthos.
“Pshaw! What glory comes to us from spitting of players? ’Tis as easy as toasting cheese,” said D’Artagnan.
They had now dined well, and Porthos called aloud for the reckoning.
“Hasten, lackey!” he cried, “or I shall lace thy black, frowsy jacket in a new pattern.”
The musketeers buckled on their swords, and D’Artagnan spoke to Athos.
“Our adventure, then, is bloodless—a mere farce, nothing like the good old times?”