Ten Years Later by Dumas, Alexandre. Part one

detestable prisoner; I, who have been a passable man, — in

that case, I give three-fifths to you, and the fourth to

your father.”

“Chevalier!”

“Mordioux! If you will have some masses said for me, you are

welcome.”

That being said, D’Artagnan took his belt from the hook,

girded on his sword, took a hat the feather of which was

fresh, and held his hand out to Raoul, who threw himself

into his arms. When in the shop, he cast a quick glance at

the shop-lads, who looked upon the scene with a pride

mingled with some inquietude; then plunging his hands into a

chest of currants, he went straight to the officer who was

waiting for him at the door.

“Those features! Can it be you, Monsieur de Friedisch?”

cried D’Artagnan, gayly. “Eh! eh! what, do we arrest our

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friends?”

“Arrest!” whispered the lads among themselves.

“Yes, it is I, Monsieur d’Artagnan! Good-day to you!” said

the Swiss, in his mountain patois.

“Must I give you up my sword? I warn you, that it is long

and heavy; you had better let me wear it to the Louvre: I

feel quite lost in the streets without a sword, and you

would be more at a loss than I should, with two.”

“The king has given no orders about it,” replied the Swiss,

“so keep your sword.”

“Well, that is very polite on the part of the king. Let us

go, at once.”

Monsieur Friedisch was not a talker, and D’Artagnan had too

many things to think about to say much. From Planchet’s shop

to the Louvre was not far — they arrived in ten minutes. It

was a dark night. M. de Friedisch wanted to enter by the

wicket. “No,” said D’Artagnan, “you would lose time by that;

take the little staircase.”

The Swiss did as D’Artagnan advised, and conducted him to

the vestibule of the king’s cabinet. When arrived there, he

bowed to his prisoner, and, without saying anything,

returned to his post. D’Artagnan had not had time to ask why

his sword was not taken from him, when the door of the

cabinet opened, and a valet de chambre called “M.

D’Artagnan!” The musketeer assumed his parade carriage and

entered, with his large eyes wide open, his brow calm, his

mustache stiff. The king was seated at a table writing. He

did not disturb himself when the step of the musketeer

resounded on the floor; he did not even turn his head.

D’Artagnan advanced as far as the middle of the room, and

seeing that the king paid no attention to him, and

suspecting, besides, that this was nothing but affectation,

a sort of tormenting preamble to the explanation that was

preparing, he turned his back on the prince, and began to

examine the frescoes on the cornices, and the cracks in the

ceiling. This maneuver was accompanied by a little tacit

monologue. “Ah! you want to humble me, do you? — you, whom

I have seen so young — you, whom I have served as I would

my own child, — you, whom I have served as I would a God —

that is to say, for nothing. Wait awhile! wait awhile! you

shall see what a man can do who has snuffed the air of the

fire of the Huguenots, under the beard of monsieur le

cardinal — the true cardinal.” At this moment Louis turned

round.

“Ah! are you there, Monsieur d’Artagnan?” said he.

D’Artagnan saw the movement and imitated it. “Yes, sire,”

said he.

“Very well; have the goodness to wait till I have cast this

up.”

D’Artagnan made no reply; he only bowed. “That is polite

enough,” thought he; “I have nothing to say.”

Louis made a violent dash with his pen, and threw it angrily

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away.

“Ah! go on, work yourself up!” thought the musketeer; “you

will put me at my ease. You shall find I did not empty the

bag, the other day, at Blois.”

Louis rose from his seat, passed his hand over his brow,

then, stopping opposite to D’Artagnan, he looked at him with

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