"Monsieur, you appear to be in great haste?"
"No one can be more so, monsieur."
"I am sorry for that," said d'Artagnan; "for as I am in great haste likewise, I wish to beg you to render me a service."
"To let me sail first."
"I have performed that same distance in forty hours, and by ten o'clock in the morning I must be in London."
"Very sorry, monsieur; but I was here first, and will not sail second."
"I am sorry, too, monsieur; but I arrived second, and must sail first."
"The king's service!" said the gentleman.
"My own service!" said d'Artagnan.
"But this is a needless quarrel you seek with me, as it seems to me."
"PARBLEU! What do you desire it to be?"
"What do you want?"
"Would you like to know?"
"Well, then, I wish that order of which you are bearer, seeing that I have not one of my own and must have one."
"You jest, I presume."
"I never jest."
"Let me pass!"
"You shall not pass."
"My brave young man, I will blow out your brains. HOLA, Lubin, my pistols!"
"Planchet," called out d'Artagnan, "take care of the lackey; I will manage the master."
Planchet, emboldened by the first exploit, sprang upon Lubin; and being strong and vigorous, he soon got him on the broad of his back, and placed his knee upon his breast.
"Go on with your affair, monsieur," cried Planchet; "I have finished mine."
Seeing this, the gentleman drew his sword, and sprang upon d'Artagnan; but he had too strong an adversary. In three seconds d'Artagnan had wounded him three times, exclaiming at each thrust, "One for Athos, one for Porthos; and one for Aramis!"
At the third hit the gentleman fell like a log. D'Artagnan believed him to be dead, or at least insensible, and went toward him for the purpose of taking the order; but the moment he extended his hand to search for it, the wounded man, who had not dropped his sword, plunged the point into d'Artagnan's breast, crying, "One for you!"
"And one for me - the best for last!" cried d'Artagnan, furious, nailing him to the earth with a fourth thrust through his body.
This time the gentleman closed his eyes and fainted. D'Artagnan searched his pockets, and took from one of them the order for the passage. It was in the name of Comte de Wardes.
Then, casting a glance on the handsome young man, who was scarcely twenty-five years of age, and whom he was leaving in his gore, deprived of sense and perhaps dead, he gave a sigh for that unaccountable destiny which leads men to destroy each other for the interests of people who are strangers to them and who often do not even know that they exist.
- Alexandre Dumas, The Three Musketeers