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