“Well, but then,” continued Athos, speaking half to himself, “if I kill you, I shall have the air of a boy-slayer.”
“Not too much so,” replied d’Artagnan, with a bow that was not deficient in dignity, “since you do me the honor to draw a sword with me while suffering from a wound which is very inconvenient.”
“Very inconvenient, upon my word; and you hurt me devilishly, I can tell you. But I will take the left hand—it is my custom in such circumstances. Do not fancy that I do you a favor; I use either hand easily. And it will be even a disadvantage to you; a left-handed man is very troublesome to people who are not prepared for it. I regret I did not inform you sooner of this circumstance.”
“You have truly, Monsieur,” said d’Artagnan, bowing again, “a courtesy, for which, I assure you, I am very grateful.”
“You confuse me,” replied Athos, with his gentlemanly air; “let us talk of something else, if you please. Ah, s’blood, how you have hurt me! My shoulder quite burns.”
“If you would permit me—” said d’Artagnan, with timidity.
“What, Monsieur?”
“I have a miraculous balsam for wounds—a balsam given to me by my mother and of which I have made a trial upon myself.”
“Well?”
“Well, I am sure that in less than three days this balsam would cure you; and at the end of three days, when you would be cured—well, sir, it would still do me a great honor to be your man.”
D’Artagnan spoke these words with a simplicity that did honor to his courtesy, without throwing the least doubt upon his courage.