Ten Years Later by Dumas, Alexandre. Part one

house, by my faith. Being a general in England is better

than being a marechal in France, please to know.”

Athos allowed himself to be led along, quite saddened by

D’Artagnan’s forced attempts at gayety. The whole city was

in a state of joy; the two friends were jostled at every

moment by enthusiasts who required them, in their

intoxication, to cry out, “Long live good King Charles!”

D’Artagnan replied by a grunt, and Athos by a smile. They

arrived thus in front of Monk’s house, before which, as we

have said, they had to pass on their way to St. James’s.

Athos and D’Artagnan said but little on the road, for the

simple reason that they would have had so many things to

talk about if they had spoken. Athos thought that by

speaking he should evince satisfaction, and that might wound

D’Artagnan. The latter feared that in speaking he should

allow some little bitterness to steal into his words which

would render his company unpleasant to his friend. It was a

singular emulation of silence between contentment and

ill-humor. D’Artagnan gave way first to that itching at the

tip of his tongue which he so habitually experienced.

“Do you remember, Athos,” said he, “the passage of the

`Memoires de D’Aubigny,’ in which that devoted servant, a

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Dumas, Alexandre – Ten Years Later

Gascon like myself, poor as myself, and, I was going to add,

brave as myself, relates instances of the meanness of Henry

IV.? My father always told me, I remember, that D’Aubigny

was a liar. But, nevertheless, examine how all the princes,

the issue of the great Henry, keep up the character of the

race.”

“Nonsense!” said Athos, “the kings of France misers? You are

mad, my friend.”

“Oh! you are so perfect yourself, you never agree to the

faults of others. But, in reality, Henry IV. was covetous,

Louis XIII., his son, was so likewise; we know something of

that, don’t we? Gaston carried this vice to exaggeration,

and has made himself, in this respect, hated by all who

surround him. Henriette, poor woman, might well be

avaricious, she who did not eat every day, and could not

warm herself every winter; and that is an example she has

given to her son Charles II., grandson of the great Henry

IV., who is as covetous as his mother and his grandfather.

See if I have well traced the genealogy of the misers?”

“D’Artagnan, my friend,” cried Athos, “you are very rude

towards that eagle race called the Bourbons.”

“Eh! and I have forgotten the best instance of all — the

other grandson of the Bearnais, Louis XIV., my ex-master.

Well, I hope he is miserly enough, he who would not lend a

million to his brother Charles! Good! I see you are

beginning to be angry. Here we are, by good luck, close to

my house, or rather to that of my friend, M. Monk.”

“My dear D’Artagnan, you do not make me angry, you make me

sad; it is cruel, in fact, to see a man of your deserts out

of the position his services ought to have acquired; it

appears to me, my dear friend, that your name is as radiant

as the greatest names in war and diplomacy. Tell me if the

Luynes, the Ballegardes, and the Bassompierres have merited,

as we have, fortunes and honors? You are right, my friend, a

hundred times right.”

D’Artagnan sighed, and preceded his friend under the porch

of the mansion Monk inhabited, at the extremity of the city.

“Permit me,” said he, “to leave my purse at home; for if in

the crowd those clever pickpockets of London, who are much

boasted of, even in Paris, were to steal from me the

remainder of my poor crowns, I should not be able to return

to France. Now, content I left France, and wild with joy I

should return to it, seeing that all my prejudices of former

days against England have returned, accompanied by many

others.”

Athos made no reply.

“So then, my dear friend, one second, and I will follow

you,” said D’Artagnan. “I know you are in a hurry to go

yonder to receive your reward, but, believe me, I am not

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