As he was alighting from his horse at the gate of the Franc-Meunier， without any one—host， waiter， or hostler—coming to hold his stirrup or take his horse， D’Artagnan spied， through an open window on the ground floor， a man of fine figure and lofty bearing， but of rather grim countenance， talking with two persons who appeared to listen to him most respectfully. D’Artagnan fancied， as was natural for him to do， that he himself must be the object of their conversation， and listened. D’Artagnan was only in part mistaken： he himself was not the subject of remark， but his horse was.
Nevertheless， D’Artagnan was desirous of examining the appearance of this impertinent personage who was laughing at him. He fixed his haughty eye upon the stranger， and perceived a man of from forty to forty-five years of age， with black and piercing eyes， a pale complexion， a strongly-marked nose， and a black and well-shaped moustache. He was dressed in a doublet and hose of violet colour， with aiguillettes of the same， without any other ornaments than the customary slashes through which the shirt appeared. This doublet and hose， though new， look creased， as garments do which have been long packed in a travelling-bag. D’Artagnan noticed all this with the rapidity of a most minute observer， and doubtless from an instinctive feeling that this unknown was destined to have a great influence over his future life.
Now， as at the moment in which D’Artagnan fixed his eyes upon the man in the violet doublet the man made one of his most knowing and profound remarks respecting the Béarnese pony， his two auditors burst out laughing， and he himself， though contrary to his custom suffered a pale smile (if I may be allowed to use such an expression) to stray over his countenance. This time there could be no doubt： D’Artagnan was really insulted. Full， then， of his conviction， he pulled his cap down over his eyes， and endeavouring to copy some of the court airs he had picked up in Gascony among young travelling nobles， he advanced， with one hand on the hilt of his sword and the other resting on his hip.
“I say， sir—you， sir， who are hiding yourself behind that shutter—yes， you， sir， tell me what you are laughing at， and we will laugh together！”
The man withdrew his eyes slowly from the nag to his rider， as if he required some time to ascertain whether it could be to him that such strange reproaches were addressed； then， when he could no longer entertain any doubt of the matter， his eyebrows bent slightly， and after quite a long pause， with an accent of irony and insolence impossible to be described， he replied to D’Artagnan，
“I was not speaking to you， sir！”
“But I am speaking to you！” replied the young man， exasperated by this mixture of insolence and good manners， of politeness and scorn.
The unknown looked at him for a moment longer with his faint smile， and retiring from the window， came out of the hostelry with a slow step， and placed himself before the horse within two paces of D’Artagnan.
“This horse is decidedly， or rather has been in his youth， a buttercup，” resumed the unknown， continuing the remarks he had begun， and addressing himself to his auditors at the window， without seeming in any way to notice the exasperation of D’Artagnan， who， however， remained stiffly standing between them. “It is a colour very well known in botany， but till the present time very rare among horses.”
He had scarcely finished when D’Artagnan made such a furious lunge at him that if he had not sprung nimbly backward it is possible that he would have jested for the last time. The unknown then， perceiving that the matter was going beyond a joke， drew his sword， saluted his adversary， and gravely placed himself on guard. But at the same moment his two auditors， accompanied by the host， fell upon D’Artagnan with sticks， shovels， and tongs. This caused so rapid and complete a diversion to the attack that D’Artagnan’s adversary， while the latter was turning round to face this shower of blows， sheathed his sword with the same precision as before， and from an actor， which he had nearly been， became a spectator of the fight， a r？le in which he acquitted himself with his usual impassibility， muttering， nevertheless，
“A plague upon these Gascons！ Put him on his yellow horse again and let him begone！”
“Not before I have killed you， poltroon！” cried D’Artagnan， showing the best front possible， and never falling back one step before his three assailants， who continued to shower their blows upon him.
“Another gasconade！” murmured the gentleman. “By my honour， these Gascons are incorrigible！ Keep up the dance， then， since he will have it so. When he is tired， he will say that he has enough of it.”
But the unknown did not yet know the headstrong personage he had to deal with； D’Artagnan was not the man ever to cry for quarter. The fight was therefore prolonged for some seconds； but at length D’Artagnan， worn out， let fall his sword， which was struck from his hand by the blow of a stick and broken in two pieces. Another blow full upon his forehead at the same moment brought him to the ground， covered with blood and almost fainting.
It was at this period that people came flocking to the scene of action from all sides. The host， fearful of consequences， with the help of his servants carried the wounded man into the kitchen， where some trifling attention was bestowed upon him.
As to the gentleman， he resumed his place at the window， and surveyed all that crowd with a certain air of impatience， evidently much annoyed by their persistence in remaining there.
“Well， how is it with this madman？” exclaimed he， turning round as the opening door announced the entrance of the host， who came to inquire whether he was hurt.
“Your excellency is safe and sound？” asked the host.
“Oh yes！ perfectly safe and sound， my good host； and I now wish to know what has become of our young man.”
“He is better，” said the host； “he fainted quite away.”
“Indeed！” said the gentleman.