“Ah, and a master stroke, too, I assure you. Your friend’s soul must stick tight to his body.”
“Were you there, then?”
“Monsieur, I followed them from curiosity, so that I saw the combat without the combatants seeing me.”
“And what took place?”
“Oh! The affair was not long, I assure you. They placed themselves on guard; the stranger made a feint and a lunge, and that so rapidly that when M. Porthos came to the parade , he had already three inches of steel in his breast. He immediately fell backward. The stranger placed the point of his sword at his throat; and M. Porthos, finding himself at the mercy of his adversary, acknowledged himself conquered. Upon which the stranger asked his name, and learning that it was Porthos, and not d’Artagnan, he assisted him to rise, brought him back to the hotel, mounted his horse, and disappeared.”
“So it was with M. d’Artagnan this stranger meant to quarrel?”
“It appears so.”
“And do you know what has become of him?”
“No, I never saw him until that moment, and have not seen him since.”
“Very well; I know all that I wish to know. Porthos’s chamber is, you say, on the first story, Number One?”
“Yes, Monsieur, the handsomest in the inn—a chamber that I could have let ten times over.”