very humble residence — of him who was styled by courtesy
king of England.
All were asleep there, as everywhere else, only a large dog,
of the race of those which the fishermen of Scheveningen
harness to little carts to carry fish to the Hague, began to
bark formidably as soon as the stranger’s steps were audible
beneath the windows. But the watchfulness, instead of
alarming the newly-landed man, appeared, on the contrary, to
give him great joy, for his voice might perhaps have proved
insufficient to rouse the people of the house, whilst, with
an auxiliary of that sort, his voice became almost useless.
The stranger waited, then, till these reiterated and
sonorous barkings should, according to all probability, have
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produced their effect, and then he ventured a summons. On
hearing his voice, the dog began to roar with such violence
that another voice was soon heard from the interior,
quieting the dog. With that the dog was quieted.
“What do you want?” asked that voice, at the same time weak,
broken, and civil.
“I want his majesty King Charles II., king of England,” said
the stranger.
“What do you want with him?”
“I want to speak to him.”
“Who are you?”
“Ah! Mordioux! you ask too much; I don’t like talking
through doors.”
“Only tell me your name.”
“I don’t like to declare my name in the open air, either;
besides, you may be sure I shall not eat your dog, and I
hope to God he will be as reserved with respect to me.”
“You bring news, perhaps, monsieur, do you not?” replied the
voice, patient and querulous as that of an old man.
“I will answer for it, I bring you news you little expect.
Open the door, then, if you please, hein!”
“Monsieur,” persisted the old man, “do you believe, upon
your soul and conscience, that your news is worth waking the
king?”
“For God’s sake, my dear monsieur, draw your bolts; you will
not be sorry, I swear, for the trouble it will give you. I
am worth my weight in gold, parole d’honneur!”
“Monsieur, I cannot open the door till you have told me your
name.”
“Must I, then?”
“It is by the order of my master, monsieur.”
“Well, my name is — but, I warn you, my name will tell you
absolutely nothing.”
“Never mind, tell it, notwithstanding.”
“Well, I am the Chevalier d’Artagnan.”
The voice uttered an exclamation.
“Oh! good heavens!” said a voice on the other side of the
door. “Monsieur d’Artagnan. What happiness! I could not help
thinking I knew that voice.”
“Humph!” said D’Artagnan. “My voice is known here! That’s
flattering.”
“Oh! yes, we know it,” said the old man, drawing the bolts;
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“and here is the proof.” And at these words he let in
D’Artagnan, who, by the light of the lantern he carried in
his hand, recognized his obstinate interlocutor.
“Ah! Mordioux!” cried he: “why, it is Parry! I ought to have
known that.”
“Parry, yes, my dear Monsieur d’Artagnan, it is I. What joy
to see you once again!”
“You are right there, what joy!” said D’Artagnan, pressing
the old man’s hand. “There, now you’ll go and inform the
king, will you not?”
“But the king is asleep, my dear monsieur.”
“Mordioux! then wake him. He won’t scold you for having
disturbed him, I will promise you.”
“You come on the part of the count, do you not?”
“The Comte de la Fere?”
“From Athos?”
“Ma foi! no; I come on my own part. Come, Parry, quick! The
king — I want the king.”
Parry did not think it his duty to resist any longer; he
knew D’Artagnan of old; he knew that, although a Gascon, his
words never promised more than they could stand to. He
crossed a court and a little garden, appeased the dog, that
seemed most anxious to taste of the musketeer’s flesh, and
went to knock at the window of a chamber forming the
ground-floor of a little pavilion. Immediately a little dog
inhabiting that chamber replied to the great dog inhabiting
the court.
“Poor king!” said D’Artagnan to himself, “these are his