turning towards Athos, and leaving D’Artagnan plunged in the
deepest pangs of disappointment.
“Ah! I said so!” muttered the musketeer. “Words! words!
Court holy water! Kings have always a marvellous talent for
offering us that which they know we will not accept, and in
appearing generous without risk. So be it! — triple fool
that I was to have hoped for a moment!”
During this time Charles took the hand of Athos. “Comte,”
said he, “you have been to me a second father; the services
you have rendered me are above all price. I have,
nevertheless, thought of a recompense. You were created by
my father a Knight of the Garter —that is an order which
all the kings of Europe cannot bear; by the queen regent,
Knight of the Holy Ghost — which is an order not less
illustrious; I join to it that of the Golden Fleece sent me
by the king of France, to whom the king of Spain, his
father-in-law, gave two on the occasion of his marriage; but
in return, I have a service to ask of you.”
“Sire,” said Athos. with confusion, “the Golden Fleece for
me! when the king of France is the only person in my country
who enjoys that distinction?”
I wish you to be in your country and all others the equal of
all those whom sovereigns have honored with their favor,”
said Charles, drawing the chain from his neck; “and I am
sure, comte, my father smiles on me from his grave.”
“It is unaccountably strange,” said D’Artagnan to himself,
whilst his friend, on his knees, received the eminent order
which the king conferred on him — “it is almost incredible
that I have always seen showers of prosperity fall upon all
who surrounded me, and that not a drop ever reached me! If I
were a jealous man it would be enough to make one tear one’s
hair, parole d’honneur!”
Athos rose from his knees, and Charles embraced him
tenderly. “General!” said he to Monk — then stopping with a
smile, “pardon me, duke, I mean. No wonder if I make a
mistake; the word duke is too short for me, I always seek
some title to lengthen it. I should wish to see you so near
my throne, that I might say to you as to Louis XIV., my
brother! Oh! I have it, and you will be almost my brother,
for I make you viceroy of Ireland and of Scotland. my dear
duke. So, after that fashion, henceforward I shall not make
a mistake.”
The duke seized the hand of the king, but without
enthusiasm, without joy, as he did everything. His heart,
however, had been moved by this last favor. Charles, by
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skillfully husbanding his generosity, had given the duke
time to wish, although he might not have wished for so much
as was given him.
“Mordioux!” grumbled D’Artagnan, “there is the shower
beginning again! Oh! it is enough to turn one’s brain!” and
he turned away with an air so sorrowful and so comically
piteous, that the king, who caught it, could not restrain a
smile. Monk was preparing to leave the room, to take leave
of Charles.
“What! my trusty and well-beloved!” said the king to the
duke, “are you going?”
“With your majesty’s permission, for in truth I am weary.
The emotions of the day have worn me out; I stand in need of
rest.”
“But,” said the king, “you are not going without M.
d’Artagnan, I hope.”
“Why not, sire?” said the old warrior.
“Well! you know very well why,” said the king.
Monk looked at Charles with astonishment.
“Oh! it may be possible; but if you forget, you, M.
d’Artagnan, do not.”
Astonishment was painted on the face of the musketeer.
“Well, then, duke,” said the king, “do you not lodge with M.
d’Artagnan?”
“I had the honor of offering M. d’Artagnan a lodging; yes,
sire.”
“That idea is your own, and yours solely?”
“Mine and mine only; yes, sire.”
“Well! but it could not be otherwise — the prisoner always
lodges with his conqueror.”
Monk colored in his turn. “Ah! that is true,” said he, “I am