We know that, in general, D’Artagnan was not wanting in
ideas; and during this soliloquy, D’Artagnan buttoned his
vest up to the chin, and nothing excited his imagination
like this preparation for a combat of any kind, called
accinction by the Romans. He was quite heated when he
reached the mansion of the Duke of Albemarle. He was
introduced to the viceroy with a promptitude which proved
that he was considered as one of the household. Monk was in
his business-closet.
“My lord,” said D’Artagnan, with that expression of
frankness which the Gascon knew so well how to assume, “my
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lord, I have come to ask your grace’s advice!”
Monk, as closely buttoned up morally as his antagonist was
physically, replied: “Ask, my friend;” and his countenance
presented an expression not less open than that of
D’Artagnan.
“My lord, in the first place, promise me secrecy and
indulgence.”
“I promise you all you wish. What is the matter? Speak!”
“It is, my lord, that I am not quite pleased with the king.”
“Indeed! And on what account, my dear lieutenant?”
“Because his majesty gives way sometimes to jest very
compromising for his servants; and jesting, my lord, is a
weapon that seriously wounds men of the sword, as we are.”
Monk did all in his power not to betray his thought, but
D’Artagnan watched him with too close an attention not to
detect an almost imperceptible flush upon his face. “Well,
now, for my part,” said he, with the most natural air
possible, “I am not an enemy of jesting, my dear Monsieur
d’Artagnan; my soldiers will tell you that even many times
in camp, I listened very indifferently, and with a certain
pleasure, to the satirical songs which the army of Lambert
passed into mine, and which, certainly, would have caused
the ears of a general more susceptible than I am to tingle.”
“Oh, my lord,” said D’Artagnan, “I know you are a complete
man; I know you have been, for a long time placed above
human miseries; but there are jests and jests of a certain
kind, which have the power of irritating me beyond
expression.”
“May I inquire what kind, my friend?”
“Such as are directed against my friends or against people I
respect, my lord!”
Monk made a slight movement, which D’Artagnan perceived.
“Eh! and in what,” asked Monk, “in what can the stroke of a
pin which scratches another tickle your skin? Answer me
that.”
“My lord, I can explain it to you in one single sentence; it
concerns you.”
Monk advanced a single step towards D’Artagnan. “Concerns
me?” said he.
“Yes, and this is what I cannot explain; but that arises,
perhaps, from my want of knowledge of his character. How can
the king have the heart to jest about a man who has rendered
him so many and such great services? How can one understand
that he should amuse himself in setting by the ears a lion
like you with a gnat like me?”
“I cannot conceive that in any way,” said Monk.
“But so it is. The king, who owed me a reward, might have
rewarded me as a soldier, without contriving that history of
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the ransom, which affects you, my lord.”
“No,” said Monk, laughing: “it does not affect me in any
way, I can assure you.”
“Not as regards me, I can understand, you know me, my lord,
I am so discreet that the grave would appear a babbler
compared to me; but — do you understand, my lord?”
“No,” replied Monk, with persistent obstinacy.
“If another knew the secret which I know —- ”
“What secret?”
“Eh! my lord, why, that unfortunate secret of Newcastle.”
“Oh! the million of M. le Comte de la Fere?”
“No, my lord, no; the enterprise made upon you grace’s
person.”
“It was well played, chevalier, that is all, and no more is
to be said about it: you are a soldier, both brave and
cunning, which proves that you unite the qualities of Fabius
and Hannibal. You employed your means, force and cunning:
there is nothing to be said against that: I ought to have