Ten Years Later by Dumas, Alexandre. Part two

“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

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