From the Pages of

The Three Musketeers

Imagine to yourself a Don Quixote of eighteen; a Don Quixote without his corselet, without his coat of mail, without his cuisses; a Don Quixote clothed in a woolen doublet, the blue collar of which had faded into a nameless shade between lees of wine and a heavenly azure; face long and brown; high cheek bones, a sign of sagacity; the maxillary muscles enormously developed, an infallible sign by which a Gascon may always be detected, even without his cap—and our young man wore a cap set off with a sort of feather; the eye open and intelligent; the nose hooked, but finely chiseled. (page 11-12)

 

“All for one, one for all—that is our motto, is it not?” (page 115)

 

“Oh, nothing but a scratch.” (page 233)

 

Immediately eight swords glittered in the rays of the setting sun, and the combat began with an animosity very natural between men twice enemies. (page 361)

 

During the evening she despaired of fate and of herself. She did not invoke God, we very well know, but she had faith in the genius of evil—that immense sovereignty which reigns in all the details of human life, and by which, as in the Arabian fable, a single pomegranate seed is sufficient to reconstruct a ruined world. (page 590)