an air at once imperious and kind. “What the devil does he
want with me? I wish he would begin!” thought the musketeer.
“Monsieur,” said the king, “you know, without doubt, that
monsieur le cardinal is dead?”
“I suspected so, sire.”
“You know that, consequently, I am master in my own
kingdom?”
“That is not a thing that dates from the death of monsieur
le cardinal, sire; a man is always master in his own house,
when he wishes to be so.”
“Yes; but do you remember all you said to me at Blois?”
“Now we come to it,” thought D’Artagnan, “I was not
deceived. Well, so much the better, it is a sign that my
scent is tolerably keen yet.”
“You do not answer me,” said Louis.
“Sire, I think I recollect.”
“You only think?”
“It is so long ago.”
“If you do not remember, I do. You said to me, — listen
with attention.”
“Ah! I shall listen with all my ears, sire; for it is very
likely the conversation will turn in a fashion very
interesting to me.”
Louis once more looked at the musketeer, The latter smoothed
the feather of his hat, then his mustache, and waited
bravely. Louis XIV. continued: “You quitted my service,
monsieur, after having told me the whole truth?”
“Yes, sire.”
“That is, after having declared to me all you thought to be
true, with regard to my mode of thinking and acting. That is
always a merit. You began by telling me that you had served
my family thirty years, and were fatigued.”
“I said so; yes, sire.”
“And you afterwards admitted that that fatigue was a
pretext, and that discontent was the real cause.”
“I was discontented, in fact, but that discontent has never
betrayed itself, that I know of, and if, like a man of
heart, I have spoken out before your majesty, I have not
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even thought of the matter, before anybody else.”
“Do not excuse yourself, D’Artagnan, but continue to listen
to me. When making me the reproach that you were
discontented, you received in reply a promise: — `Wait.’ —
Is not that true?”
“Yes, sire, as true as what I told you.”
“You answered me, `Hereafter! No, now, immediately.’ Do not
excuse yourself, I tell you. It was natural, but you had no
charity for your poor prince, Monsieur d’Artagnan.”
“Sire! charity for a king, on the part of a poor soldier!”
“You understand me very well; you knew that I stood in need
of it; you knew very well that I was not master; you knew
very well that my hope was in the future. Now, you answered
me when I spoke of that future, `My discharge, — and that
directly.'”
“That is true,” murmured D’Artagnan, biting his mustache.
“You did not flatter me when I was in distress,” added
Louis.
“But,” said D’Artagnan, raising his head nobly, “if I did
not flatter your majesty when poor, neither did I betray
you. I have shed my blood for nothing; I have watched like a
dog at a door, knowing full well that neither bread nor bone
would be thrown to me. I, although poor likewise, asked
nothing of your majesty but the discharge you speak of.”
“I know you are a brave man, but I was a young man, and you
ought to have had some indulgence for me. What had you to
reproach the king with? — that he left King Charles II.
without assistance? — let us say further — that he did not
marry Mademoiselle de Mancini?” When saying these words, the
king fixed upon the musketeer a searching look.
“Ah! ah!” thought the latter, “he is doing far more than
remembering, he divines. The devil!”
“Your sentence,” continued Louis, “fell upon the king and
fell upon the man. But, Monsieur d’Artagnan, that weakness,
for you considered it a weakness?” — D’Artagnan made no
reply — “you reproached me also with regard to monsieur,
the defunct cardinal. Now, monsieur le cardinal, did he not
bring me up, did he not support me? — elevating himself and
supporting himself at the same time, I admit; but the