And he pronounced these words with the savage, invincible resolution of the most mortified Puritan. D’Artagnan looked at his prisoner like a man who knows the value of every word, and who fixes that value according to the accent with which it has been pronounced.
“The fact is,” said he, in a whisper to the king, “the general is an obstinate man; he would not take a mouthful of bread, nor swallow a drop of wine, during the two days of our voyage. But as from this moment it is Your Majesty who must decide his fate, I wash my hands of him.”
Monck, erect, pale, and resigned, waited with his eyes fixed and his arms folded. D’Artagnan turned towards him. “You will please to understand perfectly,” said he, “that your speech, otherwise very fine, does not suit anybody, not even yourself. His Majesty wished to speak to you, you refused an interview; why, now that you are face to face, that you are here by a force independent of your will, why do you confine yourself to the rigors which I consider useless and absurd? Speak! what the devil! speak, if only to say ‘No.’ ”
Monck did not unclose his lips; Monck did not turn his eyes; Monck stroked his mustache with a thoughtful air, which announced that matters were going on badly.
During all this time Charles II had fallen into a profound reverie. For the first time he found himself face to face with Monck; with the man he had so much desired to see; and, with that peculiar glance which God has given to eagles and kings, he had fathomed the abyss of his heart. He beheld Monck, then, resolved positively to die rather than speak, which was not to be wondered at in so considerable a man, the wound in whose mind must at the moment have been cruel. Charles II formed, on the instant, one of those resolutions upon which an ordinary man risks his life, a general his fortune, and a king his kingdom. “Monsieur,” said he to Monck, “you are perfectly right upon certain points; I do not, therefore, ask you to answer me, but to listen to me.”
There was a moment’s silence, during which the king looked at Monck, who remained impassible.
“You have made me just now a painful reproach, Monsieur,” continued the king; “you said that one of my emissaries had been to Newcastle to lay a snare for you, and that, parenthetically, cannot be understood by M. d’Artagnan here, and to whom, before everything, I owe sincere thanks for his generous, his heroic devotion.”
D’Artagnan bowed with respect; Monck took no notice.
“For M. d’Artagnan—and observe, M. Monck, I do not say this to excuse myself—for M. d’Artagnan,” continued the king, “went to England of his free will, without interest, without orders, without hope, like a true gentleman as he is, to render a service to an unfortunate king, and to add to the illustrious actions of an existence, already so well filled, one glorious deed more.”
D’Artagnan colored a little, and coughed to keep his countenance. Monck did not stir.
“You do not believe what I tell you, M. Monck,” continued the king. “I can understand that—such proofs of devotion are so rare, that their reality may well be put in doubt.”
“Monsieur would do wrong not to believe you, sire,” cried d’Artagnan: “for that which Your Majesty has said is the exact truth, and the truth so exact that it seems, in going to fetch the general, I have done something which sets everything wrong. In truth, if it be so, I am in despair.”
“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said the king, pressing the hand of the musketeer, “you have obliged me as much as if you had promoted the success of my cause, for you have revealed to me an unknown friend, to whom I shall ever be grateful, and whom I shall always love.” And the king pressed his hand cordially. “And,” continued he, bowing to Monck, “an enemy whom I shall henceforth esteem at his proper value.”
The eyes of the Puritan flashed, but only once, and his countenance, for an instant, illuminated by that flash, resumed its somber impassibility.
“Then, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” continued Charles, “this is what was about to happen: M. le Comte de la Fère, who you know, I believe, has set out for Newcastle.”
“What, Athos!” exclaimed d’Artagnan.
“Yes, that was his nom de guerre, I believe. The Comte de la Fère had then set out for Newcastle, and was going, perhaps, to bring the general to hold a conference with me or with those of my party, when you violently, as it appears, interfered with the negotiation.”
“Mordioux!” replied d’Artagnan, “he entered the camp the very evening in which I succeeded in getting into it with my fishermen—”
An almost imperceptible frown on the brow of Monck told d’Artagnan that he had surmised rightly.
“Yes, yes,” muttered he; “I thought I knew his person; I even fancied I knew his voice. Unlucky wretch that I am! Oh! sire, pardon me! I thought I had so successfully steered my bark.”
“There is nothing ill in it, sir,” said the king, “except that the general accuses me of having laid a snare for him, which is not the case. No, general,
