“Hold your tongue, you stupid fellow!” said the young man; “I am d’Artagnan; don’t you know me? Where is your master?”
“You, M. d’Artagnan!” cried Grimaud, “impossible.”
“Grimaud,” said Athos, coming out of his apartment in a dressing gown, “Grimaud, I thought I heard you permitting yourself to speak?”
“Ah, Monsieur, it is—”
“Silence!”
Grimaud contented himself with pointing d’Artagnan out to his master with his finger.
Athos recognized his comrade, and phlegmatic as he was, he burst into a laugh which was quite excused by the strange masquerade before his eyes—petticoats falling over his shoes, sleeves tucked up, and mustaches stiff with agitation.
“Don’t laugh, my friend!” cried d’Artagnan; “for heaven’s sake, don’t laugh, for upon my soul, it’s no laughing matter!”
And he pronounced these words with such a solemn air and with such a real appearance of terror, that Athos eagerly seized his hand, crying, “Are you wounded, my friend? How pale you are!”
“No, but I have just met with a terrible adventure! Are you alone, Athos?”
“ Parbleu! whom do you expect to find with me at this hour?”
“Well, well!” and d’Artagnan rushed into Athos’s chamber.
“Come, speak!” said the latter, closing the door and bolting it, that they might not be disturbed. “Is the king dead? Have you killed the