will do; I will be there."

"Endeavor not to make me wait; for at quarter past twelve I will cut off
your ears as you run."

"Good!" cried d'Artagnan, "I will be there ten minutes before twelve."
And he set off running as if the devil possessed him, hoping that he
might yet find the stranger, whose slow pace could not have carried him
far.

But at the street gate, Porthos was talking with the soldier on guard.
Between the two talkers there was just enough room for a man to pass.
D'Artagnan thought it would suffice for him, and he sprang forward like
a dart between them. But d'Artagnan had reckoned without the wind. As
he was about to pass, the wind blew out Porthos's long cloak, and
d'Artagnan rushed straight into the middle of it. Without doubt, Porthos
had reasons for not abandoning this part of his vestments, for instead
of quitting his hold on the flap in his hand, he pulled it toward him,
so that d'Artagnan rolled himself up in the velvet by a movement of
rotation explained by the persistency of Porthos.

D'Artagnan, hearing the Musketeer swear, wished to escape from the
cloak, which blinded him, and sought to find his way from under the
folds of it. He was particularly anxious to avoid marring the freshness
of the magnificent baldric we are acquainted with; but on timidly
opening his eyes, he found himself with his nose fixed between the two
shoulders of Porthos--that is to say, exactly upon the baldric.

Alas, like most things in this world which have nothing in their favor
but appearances, the baldric was glittering with gold in the front,
but was nothing but simple buff behind. Vainglorious as he was, Porthos
could not afford to have a baldric wholly of gold, but had at least
half. One could comprehend the necessity of the cold and the urgency of
the cloak.

"Bless me!" cried Porthos, making strong efforts to disembarrass himself
of d'Artagnan, who was wriggling about his back; "you must be mad to run
against people in this manner."

"Excuse me," said d'Artagnan, reappearing under the shoulder of the
giant, "but I am in such haste--I was running after someone and--"

"And do you always forget your eyes when you run?" asked Porthos.

"No," replied d'Artagnan, piqued, "and thanks to my eyes, I can see what
other people cannot see."

Whether Porthos understood him or did not understand him, giving way to
his anger, "Monsieur," said he, "you stand a chance of getting chastised
if you rub Musketeers in