“The reason!—A question to me!” exclaimed the king.
“A demand, sire!”
The king, leaning with both his hands upon the table, said, in a deep tone of concentrated passion: “You have lost all recollection of what is usual at court. At court, please to remember, no one ventures to put a question to the king.”
“Very true, sire; but if men do not question, they conjecture.”
“Conjecture! What may that mean, Monsieur?”
“Very frequently, sire, conjecture with regard to a particular subject implies a want of frankness on the part of the king—”
“Monsieur!”
“And a want of confidence on the part of the subject,” pursued Athos, intrepidly.
“You forget yourself,” said the king, hurried away by anger in spite of all his self-control.
“Sire, I am obliged to seek elsewhere for what I thought I should find in Your Majesty. Instead of obtaining a reply from you, I am compelled to make one for myself.”
The king rose. “Monsieur le Comte,” he said, “I have now given you all the time I had at my disposal.” This was a dismissal.
“Sire,” replied the comte, “I have not yet had time to tell Your Majesty what I came with the express object of saying, and I so rarely see Your Majesty that I ought to avail myself of the opportunity.”
“Just now you spoke rudely of conjectures; you are now becoming offensive, Monsieur.”
“Oh, sire! offend Your Majesty! I?—never! All my life through I have maintained that kings are above all other men, not only from their rank and power, but from their nobleness of heart and their true dignity of mind. I never can bring myself to believe that my sovereign, he who passed his word to me, did so with a mental reservation.”
“What do you mean? what mental reservation do you allude to?”
“I will explain my meaning,” said Athos, coldly. “If, in refusing Mademoiselle de La Vallière to Monsieur de Bragelonne, Your Majesty had some other object in view than the happiness and fortune of the vicomte—”
“You perceive, Monsieur, that you are offending me.”
“If, in requiring the vicomte to delay his marriage, Your Majesty’s only object was to remove the gentleman to whom Mademoiselle de La Vallière was engaged—”
“Monsieur! Monsieur!”
“I have heard it said so in every direction, sire. Your Majesty’s affection for Mademoiselle de La Vallière is spoken of on all sides.”
The king tore his gloves, which he had been biting for some time. “Woe to those,” he cried, “who interfere in my affairs. I have made up my mind to take a particular course, and I will break through every obstacle in my way.”
“What obstacle?” said Athos.
The king stopped short, like a horse which, having taken the bit between his teeth and run away, finds it has slipped it back again, and that his career is checked. “I love Mademoiselle de La Vallière,” he said suddenly, with mingled nobleness of feeling and passion.
“But,” interrupted Athos, “that does not preclude Your Majesty from allowing M. de Bragelonne to marry Mademoiselle de La Vallière. The sacrifice is worthy of so great a monarch; it is fully merited by M. de Bragelonne, who has already rendered great service to Your Majesty, and who may well be regarded as a brave and worthy man. Your Majesty, therefore, in renouncing the affection you entertain, offers a proof at once of generosity, gratitude, and good policy.”
“Mademoiselle de La Vallière does not love M. de Bragelonne,” said the king, hoarsely.
“Does Your Majesty know that to be the case?” remarked Athos, with a searching look.
“I do know it.”
“Since a very short time, then; for doubtless, had Your Majesty known it when I first preferred my request, you would have taken the trouble to inform me of it.”
“Since a very short time, it is true, Monsieur.”
Athos remained silent for a moment, and then resumed: “In that case, I do not understand why Your Majesty should have sent M. de Bragelonne to London. That exile, and most properly so, too, is a matter of astonishment to everyone who regards Your Majesty’s honor with sincere affection.”
“Who presumes to impugn my honor, Monsieur de la Fère?”
“The king’s honor, sire, is made up of the honor of his whole nobility. Whenever the king offends one of his gentlemen, that is, whenever he deprives him of the smallest particle of his honor, it is from him, from the king himself, that that portion of honor is stolen.”
“Monsieur de la Fère!” said the king, haughtily.
“Sire, you sent M. de Bragelonne to London either before you were Mademoiselle de La Vallière’s lover, or since you have become so.”
The king, irritated beyond measure, especially because he felt that he was being mastered, endeavored to dismiss Athos by a gesture.
“Sire,” replied the comte, “I will tell you all; I will not leave your presence until I have been satisfied by Your Majesty or by myself; satisfied if you prove to me that you are right—satisfied if I prove to you that you are wrong. Nay, sire, you can but listen to me. I am old now, and I am attached to everything that is really great and really powerful in your kingdom. I am of those who have shed their blood for your father and for yourself, without ever having asked a single favor either from yourself or from your father. I have never inflicted the slightest wrong or injury on anyone in this world, and even kings are still my debtors. You can but listen to me, I repeat. I have come to ask you for an account of the honor of one of your servants whom you have deceived by a falsehood, or betrayed by want of heart of judgment. I know that these words irritate Your Majesty, but the facts themselves are killing us. I know that you are endeavoring to find some means whereby to chastise me for my frankness; but I know also the chastisement I will implore God to inflict upon you when I relate to Him your perjury and my son’s unhappiness.”
The king during these remarks was walking hurriedly to
