The two Musketeers were already there, and were playing together. Athos, who was very expert in all bodily exercises, passed with D’Artagnan to the opposite side and challenged them; but at the first effort he made, although he played with his left hand, he found that his wound was yet too recent to allow of such exertion. D’Artagnan remained, therefore, alone; and as he declared he was too ignorant of the game to play it regularly they only continued giving balls to one another without counting. But one of these balls, launched by Porthos’ herculean hand, passed so close to D’Artagnan’s face that he thought that if, instead of passing near, it had hit him, his audience would have been probably lost, as it would have been impossible for him to present himself before the king. Now, as upon this audience, in his Gascon imagination, depended his future life, he saluted Aramis and Porthos politely, declaring that he would not resume the game until he should be prepared to play with them on more equal terms, and went and took his place near the cord and in the gallery. Unfortunately for D’Artagnan, among the spectators was one of his Eminence’s Guardsmen, who, still irritated by the defeat of his companions, which had happened only the day before, had promised himself to seize the first opportunity of avenging it. He believed this opportunity was now come and addressed his neighbor: “It is not astonishing that that young man should be afraid of a ball, for he is doubtless a Musketeer apprentice.” D’Artagnan turned round as if a serpent had stung him, and fixed his eyes intensely upon the Guardsman who had just made this insolent speech. “_Pardieu_,” resumed the latter, twisting his mustache, “look at me as long as you like, my little gentleman! I have said what I have said.” “And as since that which you have said is too clear to require any explanation,” replied D’Artagnan, in a low voice, “I beg you to follow me.” “And when?” asked the Guardsman, with the same jeering air. “At once, if you please.” “And you know who I am, without doubt?” “I? I am completely ignorant; nor does it much disquiet me.” “You’re in the wrong there; for if you knew my name, perhaps you would not be so pressing.” “What is your name?” “Bernajoux, at your service.” “Well, then, Monsieur Bernajoux,” said D’Artagnan, tranquilly, “I will wait for you at the door.” “Go, monsieur, I will follow you.” “Do not hurry yourself, monsieur, lest it be observed that we go out together. You must be aware that for our undertaking, company would be in the way.” “That’s true,” said the Guardsman, astonished that his name had not produced more effect upon the young man. Indeed, the name of Bernajoux was known to all the world, D’Artagnan alone excepted, perhaps; for it was one of those which figured most frequently in the daily brawls which all the edicts of the cardinal could not repress.