“Ah! serpent,” muttered D’Artagnan, “I would give my chance of a captaincy in the mousquetaires for that to be my name.”

Aramis opened the paper, and in a voice trembling with hate and vengeance read “D’Artagnan.”

The Gascon uttered a cry of joy and turning to Mordaunt: 

“I hope, sir,” said he, “you have no objection to make.”

“None, whatever,” replied the other, drawing his sword and resting the point on his boot.

The moment that D’Artagnan saw that his wish was accomplished and his man would not escape him, he recovered his usual tranquillity.  He turned up his cuffs neatly and rubbed the sole of his right boot on the floor, but did not fail, however, to remark that Mordaunt was looking about him in a singular manner.

“Are you ready, sir?” he said at last.

“I was waiting for you, sir,” said Mordaunt, raising his head and casting at his opponent a look it would be impossible to describe.

“Well, then,” said the Gascon, “take care of yourself, for I am not a bad hand at the rapier.”

“Nor I either.”

“So much the better; that sets my mind at rest.  Defend yourself.”

“One minute,” said the young man.  “Give me your word, gentlemen, that you will not attack me otherwise than one after the other.”

“Is it to have the pleasure of insulting us that you say that, my little viper?”

“No, but to set my mind at rest, as you observed just now.”

“It is for something else than that, I imagine,” muttered D’Artagnan, shaking his head doubtfully.

“On the honor of gentlemen,” said Aramis and Porthos.

“In that case, gentlemen, have the kindness to retire into the corners, so as to give us ample room.  We shall require it.”

“Yes, gentlemen,” said D’Artagnan, “we must not leave this person the slightest pretext for behaving badly, which, with all due respect, I fancy he is anxious still to do.”

This new attack made no impression on Mordaunt.  The space was cleared, the two lamps placed on Cromwell’s desk, in order that the combatants might have as much light as possible; and the swords crossed.

D’Artagnan was too good a swordsman to trifle with his opponent.  He made a rapid and brilliant feint which Mordaunt parried.

“Aha!” he cried with a smile of satisfaction.

And without losing a minute, thinking he saw an opening, he thrust his right in and forced Mordaunt to parry a counter en quarte so fine that the point of the weapon might have turned within a wedding ring.

This time it was Mordaunt who smiled.

“Ah, sir,” said D’Artagnan, “you have a wicked smile.  It must have been the devil who taught it you, was it not?”

Mordaunt replied by trying his opponent’s weapon with an amount of strength which the Gascon was astonished to find in a form apparently so feeble; but thanks to a parry no less clever than that which Mordaunt had just achieved, he succeeded in meeting his sword, which slid along his own without touching his chest.