“My dear Monsieur d’Artagnan, I beseech you speak no more
ill of the king. I am almost in his service, and my father
would be very angry with me for having heard, even from your
mouth, words injurious to his majesty.”
“Your father, eh? He is a knight in every bad cause.
Pardieu! yes, your father is a brave man, a Caesar, it is
true — but a man without perception.”
“Now, my dear chevalier,” exclaimed Raoul, laughing, “are
you going to speak ill of my father, of him you call the
great Athos. Truly you are in a bad vein to-day; riches
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render you as sour as poverty renders other people.”
“Pardieu! you are right. I am a rascal and in my dotage; I
am an unhappy wretch grown old; a tent-cord untwisted, a
pierced cuirass, a boot without a sole, a spur without a
rowel; — but do me the pleasure to add one thing.”
“What is that, my dear Monsieur d’Artagnan?”
“Simply say: `Mazarin was a pitiful wretch.'”
“Perhaps he is dead.”
“More the reason — I say was; if I did not hope that he was
dead, I would entreat you to say: `Mazarin is a pitiful
wretch.’ Come, say so, say so, for love of me.”
“Well, I will.”
“Say it!”
“Mazarin was a pitiful wretch,” said Raoul, smiling at the
musketeer, who roared with laughter, as in his best days.
“A moment,” said the latter; “you have spoken my first
proposition, here is the conclusion of it, — repeat, Raoul,
repeat: `But I regret Mazarin.'”
“Chevalier!”
“You will not say it? Well, then, I will say it twice for
you.”
“But you would regret Mazarin?”
And they were still laughing and discussing this profession
of principles, when one of the shop-boys entered. “A letter,
monsieur,” said he, “for M. d’Artagnan.”
“Thank you; give it me,” cried the musketeer.
“The handwriting of monsieur le comte,” said Raoul.
“Yes, yes.” And D’Artagnan broke the seal.
“Dear friend,” said Athos, “a person has just been here to
beg me to seek for you, on the part of the king.”
“Seek me!” said D’Artagnan, letting the paper fall upon the
table. Raoul picked it up, and continued to read aloud: —
“Make haste. His majesty is very anxious to speak to you,
and expects you at the Louvre.”
“Expects me?” again repeated the musketeer.
“He, he, he!” laughed Raoul.
“Oh, oh!” replied D’Artagnan. “What the devil can this
mean?”
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CHAPTER 53
The King
The first moment of surprise over, D’Artagnan reperused
Athos’s note. “It is strange,” said he, “that the king
should send for me.”
“Why so?” said Raoul; “do you not think, monsieur, that the
king must regret such a servant as you?”
“Oh, oh!” cried the officer, laughing with all his might;
“you are poking fun at me, Master Raoul. If the king had
regretted me, he would not have let me leave him. No, no; I
see in it something better, or worse, if you like.”
“Worse! What can that be, monsieur le chevalier?”
“You are young, you are a boy, you are admirable. Oh, how I
should like to be as you are! To be but twenty-four, with an
unfurrowed brow, under which the brain is void of everything
but women, love, and good intentions. Oh, Raoul, as long as
you have not received the smiles of kings, the confidence of
queens; as long as you have not had two cardinals killed
under you, the one a tiger, the other a fox, as long as you
have not — But what is the good of all this trifling? We
must part, Raoul.”
“How you say the word! What a serious face!”
“Eh! but the occasion is worthy of it. Listen to me. I have
a very good recommendation to tender you.”
“I am all attention, Monsieur d’Artagnan.”
“You will go and inform your father of my departure.”
“Your departure?”
“Pardieu! You will tell him that I am gone into England; and
that I am living in my little country-house.”
“In England, you! — And the king’s orders?”
“You get more and more silly: do you imagine that I am going