“Monsieur,” interrupted the king, “remember your words of yesterday. You said to me in this very place where you now are, that you were endowed with the best health of any man in France; that fatigue was unknown to you! that you did not mind spending whole days and nights at your post. Did you tell me that, Monsieur, or not? Try and recall, Monsieur.”
The officer sighed. “Sire,” said he, “old age is boastful; and it is pardonable for old men to praise themselves when others no longer do it. It is very possible I said that; but the fact is, sire, I am very much fatigued, and request permission to retire.”
“Monsieur,” said the king, advancing towards the officer with a gesture full of majesty, “you are not assigning me the true reason. You wish to quit my service, it may be true, but you disguise from me the motive of your retreat.”
“Sire, believe that—”
“I believe what I see, Monsieur; I see a vigorous, energetic man, full of presence of mind, the best soldier in France, perhaps; and this personage cannot persuade me the least in the world that he stands in need of rest.”
“Ah! sire,” said the lieutenant, with bitterness, “what praise! Indeed, Your Majesty confounds me! Energetic, vigorous, brave, intelligent, the best soldier in the army! But, sire, Your Majesty exaggerates my small portion of merit to such a point, that however good an opinion I may have of myself, I do not recognize myself; in truth I do not. If I were vain enough to believe only half of Your Majesty’s words, I should consider myself a valuable, indispensable man. I should say that a servant possessed of such brilliant qualities was a treasure beyond all price. Now, sire, I have been all my life—I feel bound to say it—except at the present time, appreciated, in my opinion, much below my value. I therefore repeat, Your Majesty exaggerates.”
The king knitted his brow, for he saw a bitter raillery beneath the words of the officer. “Come, Monsieur,” said he, “let us meet the question frankly. Are you dissatisfied with my service, say? No evasions; speak boldly, frankly—I command you to do so.”
The officer, who had been twisting his hat about in his hands, with an embarrassed air, for several minutes, raised his head at these words. “Oh! sire,” said he, “that puts me a little more at my ease. To a question put so frankly, I will reply frankly. To tell the truth is a good thing, as much from the pleasure one feels in relieving one’s heart, as on account of the rarity of the fact. I will speak the truth, then, to my king, at the same time imploring him to excuse the frankness of an old soldier.”
Louis looked at his officer with anxiety which he manifested by the agitation of his gesture. “Well, then, speak,” said he, “for I am impatient to hear the truths you have to tell me.”
The officer threw his hat upon a table, and his countenance, always so intelligent and martial, assumed, all at once, a strange character of grandeur and solemnity. “Sire,” said he, “I quit the king’s service because I am dissatisfied. The valet, in these times, can approach his master as respectfully as I do, can give him an account of his labor, bring back his tools, return the funds that have been entrusted to him, and say ‘Master, my day’s work is done. Pay me, if you please, and let us part.’ ”
“Monsieur! Monsieur!” exclaimed the king, crimson with rage.
“Ah! sire,” replied the officer, bending his knee for a moment, “never was servant more respectful than I am before Your Majesty; only you commanded me to tell the truth. Now I have begun to tell it, it must come out, even if you command me to hold my tongue.”
There was so much resolution expressed in the deep-sunk muscles of the officer’s countenance, that Louis XIV had no occasion to tell him to continue; he continued, therefore, whilst the king looked at him with a curiosity mingled with admiration.
“Sire, I have, as I have said, now served the house of France thirty-five years; few people have worn out so many swords in that service as I have, and the swords I speak of were good swords, too, sire. I was a boy, ignorant of everything except courage, when the king your father guessed that there was a man in me. I was a man, sire, when the Cardinal de Richelieu, who was a judge of manhood, discovered an enemy in me. Sire, the history of that enmity between the ant and the lion may be read from the first to the last line, in the secret archives of your family. If ever you feel an inclination to know it, do so, sire; the history is worth the trouble—it is I who tell you so. You will there read that the lion, fatigued, harassed, out of breath, at length cried for quarter, and the justice must be rendered him to say, that he gave as much as he required. Oh! those were glorious times, sire, strewed over with battles like one of Tasso’s or Ariosto’s epics. The wonders of those times, to which the people of ours would refuse belief, were everyday occurrences. For five years together, I was a hero every day; at least, so I was told by persons of judgment; and that is a long period for heroism, trust me, sire, a period of five years. Nevertheless, I have faith in what these people told me, for the were good judges. They were named M. de Richelieu, M. de Buckingham, M. de Beaufort, M. de Retz, a mighty genius himself in street warfare—in short, the king, Louis XIII, and even the queen, your noble mother, who one day condescended to say, ‘Thank you.’ I
