“You know him then?”
“I have known him nearly five-and-twenty years, sire.”
“Why, he is scarcely twenty-five years old!” cried the king.
“Well, sire! I have known him ever since he was born, that
is all.”
“Do you affirm that?”
“Sire,” said D’Artagnan, “your majesty questions me with a
mistrust in which I recognize another character than your
own. M. Colbert, who has so well informed you, has he not
forgotten to tell you that this young man is the son of my
most intimate friend?”
“The Vicomte de Bragelonne?”
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“Certainly, sire. The father of the Vicomte de Bragelonne is
M. le Comte de la Fere, who so powerfully assisted in the
restoration of king Charles II. Bragelonne comes of a
valiant race, sire.”
“Then he is the son of that nobleman who came to me, or
rather to M. Mazarin, on the part of King Charles II., to
offer me his alliance?”
“Exactly, sire.”
“And the Comte de la Fere is a great soldier, say you?”
“Sire, he is a man who has drawn his sword more times for
the king, your father, than there are, at present, months in
the happy life of your majesty.”
It was Louis XIV. who now bit his lip.
“That is well, M. d’Artagnan, very well! And M. le Comte de
la Fere is your friend, say you?”
“For about forty years; yes, sire. Your majesty may see that
I do not speak to you of yesterday.”
“Should you be glad to see this young man, M. d’Artagnan?”
“Delighted, sire.”
The king touched his bell, and an usher appeared. “Call M.
de Bragelonne,” said the king.
“Ah! ah! he is here?” said D’Artagnan.
“He is on guard to-day, at the Louvre, with the company of
the gentlemen of monsieur le prince.”
The king had scarcely ceased speaking, when Raoul presented
himself, and, on seeing D’Artagnan, smiled on him with that
charming smile which is only found upon the lips of youth.
“Come, come,” said D’Artagnan, familiarly, to Raoul, “the
king will allow you to embrace me; only tell his majesty you
thank him.”
Raoul bowed so gracefully, that Louis, to whom all superior
qualities were pleasing when they did not overshadow his
own, admired his beauty, strength and modesty.
“Monsieur,” said the king, addressing Raoul, “I have asked
monsieur le prince to be kind enough to give you up to me; I
have received his reply, and you belong to me from this
morning. Monsieur le prince was a good master, but I hope
you will not lose by the exchange.”
“Yes, yes, Raoul, be satisfied; the king has some good in
him,” said D’Artagnan, who had fathomed the character of
Louis, and who played with his self-love, within certain
limits; always observing, be it understood, the proprieties
and flattering, even when he appeared to be bantering.
“Sire,” said Bragelonne, with a voice soft and musical, and
with the natural and easy elocution he inherited from his
father, “sire, it is not from to-day that I belong to your
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majesty.”
“Oh! no, I know,” said the king, “you mean your enterprise
of the Greve. That day, you were truly mine, monsieur.”
“Sire, it is not of that day I would speak; it would not
become me to refer to so paltry a service in the presence of
such a man as M. d’Artagnan. I would speak of a circumstance
which created an epoch in my life, and which consecrated me,
from the age of sixteen, to the devoted service of your
majesty.”
“Ah! ah!” said the king, “what was that circumstance? Tell
me, monsieur.”
“This is it, sire. — When I was setting out on my first
campaign, that is to say, to join the army of monsieur le
prince, M. le Comte de la Fere came to conduct me as far as
Saint-Denis, where the remains of King Louis XIII. wait,
upon the lowest steps of the funeral basilique, a successor,
whom God will not send him, I hope, for many years. Then he
made me swear upon the ashes of our masters, to serve
royalty, represented by you — incarnate in you, sire — to