“That is fortunate!”
“But he also said much good of that young man.”
“And with justice,” said the musketeer.
“In short, it appears that this young man is a fire-eater,” said Louis, in order to sharpen the sentiment which he mistook for envy.
“A fire-eater! Yes, sire,” repeated d’Artagnan, delighted on his part to direct the king’s attention to Raoul.
“Do you not know his name?”
“Well, I think—”
“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?”
“Certainly, sire. The father of the Vicomte de Bragelonne is M. le Comte de la Fère, 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 Fère 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 Fère 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 today, 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 voice soft and musical, and with the natural and easy elocution he inherited from his father; “Sire, it is not from today that I belong to Your Majesty.”
“Oh! no, I know,” said the king, “you mean your enterprise of the Grève. 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 Fère 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 serve it in word, in thought, and in action. I swore, and God and the dead were witnesses to my oath. During ten years, sire, I have not so often as I desired had occasion to keep it. I am a soldier of Your Majesty, and nothing else; and, on calling me nearer to you, I do not change my master, I only change my garrison.”
Raoul was silent and bowed. Louis still listened after he had done speaking.
“Mordioux!” cried d’Artagnan, “that was well spoken! was it not, Your Majesty? A good race! a noble race!”
“Yes,” murmured the agitated king, without, however daring to manifest his emotion, for it had no other cause than contact with a nature intrinsically noble. “Yes, Monsieur, you say truly:—wherever you were, you were the king’s. But in changing your garrison, believe me you will find an advancement of which you are worthy.”
Raoul saw that this ended what the king had to say to him. And with the perfect tact which characterized his refined nature, he bowed and retired.
“Is there anything else, Monsieur, of which you have to inform me?” said the king, when he found himself again alone with d’Artagnan.
“Yes, sire, and I kept that news for the last, for it is sad, and will clothe European royalty in mourning.”
“What do you tell me?”
“Sire, in passing through Blois, a word, a sad word, echoed from the palace, struck my ear.”
“In truth, you terrify me, M. d’Artagnan.”
“Sire, this word was pronounced to me by a piqueur, who wore crape on his arm.”
“My uncle, Gaston of Orléans, perhaps.”
“Sire,
