The chief approached, and it was indeed Planchet; D’Artagnan had recognized the voice of his old servant. “How, sir!” said Planchet, “is it you?” “Eh! _mon Dieu!_ yes, my good friend, this worthy Porthos has just received a sword wound and I am taking him to his country house at Saint Cloud.” “Oh! really,” said Planchet. “Porthos,” said D’Artagnan, “if you can still speak, say a word, my dear Porthos, to this good Planchet.” “Planchet, my friend,” said Porthos, in a melancholy voice, “I am very ill; should you meet a doctor you will do me a favor by sending him to me.” “Oh! good Heaven,” said Planchet, “what a misfortune! and how did it happen?” “I will tell you all about it,” replied Mousqueton. Porthos uttered a deep groan. “Make way for us, Planchet,” said D’Artagnan in a whisper to him, “or he will not arrive alive; the lungs are attacked, my friend.” Planchet shook his head with the air of a man who says, “In that case things look ill.” Then he exclaimed, turning to his men: “Let them pass; they are friends.” The carriage resumed its course, and Mazarin, who had held his breath, ventured to breathe again. “_Bricconi!_” muttered he. A few steps in advance of the gate of Saint Honoré they met a third troop; this latter party was composed of ill-looking fellows, who resembled bandits more than anything else; they were the men of the beggar of Saint Eustache. “Attention, Porthos!” cried D’Artagnan. Porthos placed his hand on the pistols. “What is it?” asked Mazarin. “My lord, I think we are in bad company.” A man advanced to the door with a kind of scythe in his hand. “_Qui vive?_” he asked. “Eh, rascal!” said D’Artagnan, “do you not recognize his highness the prince’s carriage?” “Prince or not,” said the man, “open. We are here to guard the gate, and no one whom we do not know shall pass.” “What is to be done?” said Porthos. “_Pardieu!_ pass,” replied D’Artagnan. “But _how?_” asked Mazarin. “Through or over; coachman, gallop on.” The coachman raised his whip. “Not a step further,” said the man, who appeared to be the captain, “or I will hamstring your horses.” “_Peste!_” said Porthos, “it would be a pity; animals which cost me a hundred pistoles each.” “I will pay you two hundred for them,” said Mazarin. “Yes, but when once they are hamstrung, our necks will be strung next.” “If one of them comes to my side,” asked Porthos, “must I kill him?” “Yes, by a blow of your fist, if you can; we will not fire but at the last extremity.” “I can do it,” said Porthos.