speech, otherwise very fine, does not suit anybody, not even
yourself. His majesty wished to speak to you, you refused
him an interview; why, now that you are face to face, that
you are here by a force independent of your will, why do you
confine yourself to rigors which I consider useless and
absurd? Speak! what the devil! speak, if only to say `No.'”
Monk did not unclose his lips, Monk did not turn his eyes;
Monk stroked his mustache with a thoughtful air, which
announced that matters were going on badly.
During all this time Charles II. had fallen into a profound
reverie. For the first time he found himself face to face
with Monk; with the man he had so much desired to see; and,
with that peculiar glance which God has given to eagles and
kings, he had fathomed the abyss of his heart. He beheld
Monk, then, resolved positively to die rather than speak,
which was not to be wondered at in so considerable a man,
the wound in whose mind must at the moment have been cruel.
Charles II. formed, on the instant, one of those resolutions
upon which an ordinary man risks his life, a general his
fortune, and a king his kingdom. “Monsieur,” said he to
Monk, “you are perfectly right upon certain points; I do
not, therefore, ask you to answer me, but to listen to me.”
There was a moment’s silence, during which the king looked
at Monk, who remained impassible.
“You have made me just now a painful reproach, monsieur,”
continued the king; “you said that one of my emissaries had
been to Newcastle to lay a snare for you, and that,
parenthetically, cannot be understood by M. d’Artagnan,
here, and to whom, before everything, I owe sincere thanks
for his generous, his heroic devotion.”
D’Artagnan bowed with respect; Monk took no notice.
“For M. d’Artagnan — and observe, M. Monk, I do not say
this to excuse myself — for M. d’Artagnan,” continued the
king, “went to England of his free will, without interest,
without orders, without hope, like a true gentleman as he
is, to render a service to an unfortunate king, and to add
to the illustrious actions of an existence, already so well
filled, one glorious deed more.”
D’Artagnan colored a little, and coughed to keep his
countenance. Monk did not stir.
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“You do not believe what I tell you, M. Monk,” continued the
king. “I can understand that, — such proofs of devotion are
so rare, that their reality may well be put in doubt.”
“Monsieur would do wrong not to believe you, sire,” cried
D’Artagnan: “for that which your majesty has said is the
exact truth, and the truth so exact that it seems, in going
to fetch the general, I have done something which sets
everything wrong. In truth, if it be so, I am in despair.”
“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said the king, pressing the hand of
the musketeer, “you have obliged me as much as if you had
promoted the success of my cause, for you have revealed to
me an unknown friend, to whom I shall ever be grateful, and
whom I shall always love.” And the king pressed his hand
cordially. “And,” continued he, bowing to Monk, “an enemy
whom I shall henceforth esteem at his proper value.”
The eyes of the Puritan flashed, but only once, and his
countenance, for an instant, illuminated by that flash,
resumed its somber impassibility.
“Then, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” continued Charles, “this is
what was about to happen: M. le Comte de la Fere, whom you
know, I believe, has set out for Newcastle.”
“What, Athos!” exclaimed D’Artagnan.
“Yes, that was his nom de guerre, I believe. The Comte de la
Fere had then set out for Newcastle, and was going, perhaps,
to bring the general to hold a conference with me or with
those of my party, when you violently, as it appears,
interfered with the negotiation.”
“Mordioux!” replied D’Artagnan, “he entered the camp the
very evening in which I succeeded in getting into it with my
fishermen —- ”
An almost imperceptible frown on the brow of Monk told