“He proposed to me to undertake it with him, and I agreed.”
“And how much did she give you for this fine enterprise?”
“A hundred louis.”
“Well, come!” said the young man, laughing, “she thinks I am worth something. A hundred louis? Well, that was a temptation for two wretches like you. I understand why you accepted it, and I grant you my pardon; but upon one condition.”
“What is that?” said the soldier, uneasy at perceiving that all was not over.
“That you will go and fetch me the letter your comrade has in his pocket.”
“But,” cried the bandit, “that is only another way of killing me. How can I go and fetch that letter under the fire of the bastion?”
“You must nevertheless make up your mind to go and get it, or I swear you shall die by my hand.”
“Pardon, Monsieur; pity! In the name of that young lady you love, and whom you perhaps believe dead but who is not!” cried the bandit, throwing himself upon his knees and leaning upon his hand—for he began to lose his strength with his blood.
“And how do you know there is a young woman whom I love, and that I believed that woman dead?” asked d’Artagnan.
“By that letter which my comrade has in his pocket.”
“You see, then,” said d’Artagnan, “that I must have that letter. So no more delay, no more hesitation; or else whatever may be my repugnance