d'Artagnan, Senior Musketeer Citizen
At the age of sixty-three, d’Artagnan was in fact a bit long in the tooth to be dueling with swords, but he felt that as the newly-named head of the King’s Musketeers, he needed to save face when a young Parisian scalawag sporting a well-worn sword (obviously purchased at one of the lesser local pawn shops) challenged him one Friday afternoon. The young challenger had made some disparaging remarks in public that the older swordsman just could not ignore. It was a matter of pride, d’Artagnan thought to himself. After a brief sojourn as a Musketeer apprentice when he was a young man and then the many years spent as an officer and then head of the Cardinal’s Guard, d’Artagnan had been involved in more than a few scrapes involving swordplay, although it had been quite some time since he had drawn his sword from its scabbard in anger.
The young swordsman had some skill, d’Artagnan had to admit. However, even at his advanced age, the King’s top Musketeer believed the youngster was no match for his own advanced skills. Suddenly, after about two minutes of swords clashing back and forth, the scalawag, in an apparent lucky thrust of the sword, scored a direct hit to d’Artagnan’s right shoulder. It was just a small cut but it drew blood nonetheless.
“Why, you diseased weasel, you!” d’Artagnan exclaimed, still fending off the challenger’s lunges. “You cut me! I do believe I needed that scratch, however, to wake me up from my dueling slumber!”
With that, d’Artagnan parried the younger swordsman’s thrust and lunged toward his opponent with the intent of cutting the challenger’s right arm and ending the duel very quickly. However, his less experienced opponent seemed to anticipate the older Musketeer’s move and parried the thrust himself, countering with another short thrust and cutting d'Artagnan on the left shoulder this time.
“Well,” d’Artagnan said, looking down at his bloody left shoulder now, “I didn’t need THAT scratch!”
d’Artagnan’s opponent, taking advantage of his older opponent’s surprise, thrust again and struck d’Artagnan a third time!
“And,” d’Artagnan screamed aloud, “I certainly didn’t need THAT ONE! Now, you will soon understand the old adage about waking a sleeping giant, my young fool!”
With those words, the moves that the King’s top Musketeer had perfected as a young swordsman returned to him and in short notice he had disarmed his younger foe. In fact, because of the obvious lack of quality workmanship in his opponent’s blade, d’Artagnan’s sword, a fine piece of custom-made craftsmanship made by one Henri Louisville of Paris, probably the most renowned makers of swords in all of France, and all of Europe for that matter, had cut his foe’s steel in two. The younger duelist was left with nothing but a four-inch stub of steel that would have trouble slicing through some of the tougher cuts of beef in some of the less reputable cafes of Paris.
“So, my young ruffian,” d’Artagnan gloated, snarling to his opponent and placing his sword at the base of the younger swordsman’s neck, “what do you have to say for yourself now? Do you take back your libelous rants of earlier today or do you want to face my wrath even further?”
The callous interloper, sensing he had no choice but to recant his earlier taunt of the head of the King’s Musketeers and believing the older swordsman would not hesitate whatsoever to attempt to separate his head from the rest of his body, decided that discretion was indeed the better part of valor when one loses a duel to a more superior swordsman
.
“Fine, sir!” the scalawag replied. “The bread pudding in England is NOT better than that made in France! I apologize to all of France’s bakers and housewives I have insulted! And, in addition, you indeed do not look old enough to get the senior citizen’s discount at the Louvre!”
Justice and fair play had prevailed once more in the life of France’s most renowned swordsman.
No comments:
Post a Comment