"Don't worry, it has reached its destination. The duty officer at the Saint-Denis gate, to whom you so prudently entrusted it on your arrival in Paris, made no delay in delivering it to monsieur de Treville. . . . Are you hungry?"
"Yes."
"That's an excellent sign."
Athos picked up a basket which he placed on the bed between them and lifted the red-and-white chequered cloth to reveal sausage, cheese, a pot of pate, half a round loaf of bread, a knife, two glasses, and three bottles of wine.
"And so," said Leprat while the other spread a thick layer of pate on a slice of bread, "I am alive."
"Indeed. Here, this is for you, eat."
The patient bit into the slice and found it only stimulated his appetite more.
"And how is it that I am still for this world?"
"Thank the heavens in the first instance. And monsieur de Treville in the second. . . . But start by telling me what you remember."
Leprat searched his memories.
"Yesterday evening, after nightfall ... it was yesterday evening, wasn't it?"
"Yes."
"So, yesterday evening, after nightfall, I was caught in an ambush at the corner of rue Saint-Denis and rue aux Ours. I beat off most of my attackers, but the last, a gentleman, got the better of me. I remember that he shot me with a pistol ball to the heart, and after that—nothing."
"Did you know your would-be assassin?"
"No. But from now on, I would recognise him amongst a thousand others."
Athos nodded, thoughtful. He knew neither the details nor the heart of this mission and, being a discreet man, refused to pose any questions on the subject. He suspected that the chevalier knew little more than he did. He twisted around on his chair, unhooked Leprat's baldric from its back, and said: "This is why you should thank the heavens in the first instance. They made you left-handed."
Leprat smiled.
"Because you are left-handed, you carry your sword on your right. The baldric comes over your left shoulder. It protected the left-hand side of your chest and stopped the ball which was meant to pierce your heart. It was the force of impact alone that knocked you down, and senseless."
"Thank God my assassin did not aim for my head. ..."
"Such are the fortunes of war. They are not always against us."
The wounded man nodded in agreement and accepted the proffered glass of wine. He had sufficient experience to know that those in battle often owed their lives to luck.
"Although I can guess at the reason," he said as their glasses clinked together, "now tell me why I must thank monsieur de Treville."
Athos drained his glass before replying.
"Despite being alerted by the sounds of your fight, the clowns who were guarding the Saint-Denis gate only reached you at the moment when you were shot. Their arrival forced the assassin to flee. Naturally they believed you were dead at first, but then realised that you were not—or not quite. Thanks to the pass you had shown at the gate they knew you were a musketeer; one of them ran to find monsieur de Treville while the others carried you to a doctor. Monsieur de Treville rushed to you at once, rescued you from the claws of that quack, brought you back here, and entrusted you to the good care of his own surgeon. And that's all."
"That's all?"
"That's all."
"But how does that explain why you now play nursemaid?"
Athos shrugged.
"I was on duty last night," he explained.
Cutting the discussion short, he rose, picked up his hat, and announced: "And now I must leave you."
"Are you returning to rue du Vieux-Colombier?"
"Yes."
"With your permission, I'll come with you."
"Really?"
"I believe I'm fit enough and monsieur de Treville is no doubt waiting to hear my report. . . . Just give me time to dress."
"Very well. I shall wait for you in the corridor."
Antoine Leprat lived on lie de la Cite.
Dressed in clean clothes but sporting an ugly three-day beard, he was quick to rejoin Athos but begged him to permit a short stop with a barber. The other accepted all the more readily as he would also benefit from the barber's attentions. Monsieur de Treville required that his Musketeers be—at the very least—presentable. A barber on rue de la Licorne left their cheeks clean-shaven and furnished them with the opportunity to relax and talk a little more.
"One rhing intrigues me," said Athos.
"What is that?"
"You only remember the cavalier who shot you, is that righr? But the archers posted upon the Saint-Denis gate spoke of seeing a second cavalier . . . a rider dressed in light grey or in white, on a horse with a white caparison, who sat facing the first while you lay sprawled on the ground. To hear them speak, this latecomer was almost ghostly in appearance. . . . And he lingered no longer than the other to be recognised."
"I told you everything I can remember, Athos."