His thoughts were employed, therefore, all the way on the road from his presentation, with one thing, and that was, how he should conciliate a man like Monck, a man whom Charles himself, king as he was, conciliated with difficulty; for, scarcely established, the protected might again stand in need of the protector, and would, consequently, not refuse him, such being the case, the petty satisfaction of transporting M. d’Artagnan, or of confining him in one of the Middlesex prisons, or drowning him a little on his passage from Dover to Boulogne. Such sorts of satisfaction kings are accustomed to render to viceroys without disagreeable consequences.
It would not be at all necessary for the king to be active in that contrepartie of the play in which Monck should take his revenge. The part of the king would be confined to simply pardoning the viceroy of Ireland all he should undertake against d’Artagnan. Nothing more was necessary to place the conscience of the Duke of Albemarle at rest than a te absolvo said with a laugh, or the scrawl of “Charles the King,” traced at the foot of a parchment; and with these two words pronounced, and these two words written, poor d’Artagnan was forever crushed beneath the ruins of his imagination.
And then, a thing sufficiently disquieting for a man with such foresight as our musketeer, he found himself alone; and even the friendship of Athos could not restore his confidence. Certainly if the affair had only concerned a free distribution of sword-thrusts, the musketeer would have counted upon his companion; but in delicate dealings with a king, when the perhaps of an unlucky chance should arise in justification of Monck or of Charles of England, d’Artagnan knew Athos well enough to be sure he would give the best possible coloring to the loyalty of the survivor, and would content himself with shedding floods of tears on the tomb of the dead, supposing the dead to be his friend, and afterwards composing his epitaph in the most pompous superlatives.
Decidedly
, thought the Gascon; and this thought was the result of the reflections which he had just whispered to himself and which we have repeated aloud—decidedly, I must be reconciled with M. Monck, and acquire proof of his perfect indifference for the past. If, and God forbid it should be so! he is still sulky and reserved in the expression of this sentiment, I shall give my money to Athos to take away with him, and remain in England just long enough to unmask him, then, as I have a quick eye and a light foot, I shall notice the first hostile sign; to decamp or conceal myself at the residence of my lord of Buckingham, who seems a good sort of devil at the bottom, and to whom, in return for his hospitality, I shall relate all that history of the diamonds, which can now compromise nobody but an old queen, who need not be ashamed, after being the wife of a miserly creature like Mazarin, of having formerly been the mistress of a handsome nobleman like Buckingham. Mordioux! that is the thing, and this Monck shall not get the better of me. Eh? and besides, I have an idea!
We know that, in general, d’Artagnan was not wanting in ideas; and during this soliloquy, d’Artagnan buttoned his vest up to the chin, and nothing excited his imagination like this preparation for a combat of any kind, called accinction by the Romans. He was quite heated when he reached the mansion of the Duke of Albemarle. He was introduced to the viceroy with a promptitude which proved that he was considered as one of the household. Monck was in his business-closet.
“My lord,” said d’Artagnan, with that expression of frankness which the Gascon knew so well how to assume, “my lord, I have come to ask Your Grace’s advice!”
Monck, as closely buttoned up morally as his antagonist was physically, replied: “Ask, my friend”; and his countenance presented an expression not less open than that of d’Artagnan.
“My lord, in the first place, promise me secrecy and indulgence.”
“I promise you all you wish. What is the matter? Speak!”
“It is, my lord, that I am not quite pleased with the king.”
“Indeed! And on what account, my dear lieutenant?”
“Because His Majesty gives way sometimes to jests very compromising for his servants; and jesting, my lord, is a weapon that seriously wounds men of the sword, as we are.”
Monck did all in his power not to betray his thought, but d’Artagnan watched him with too close attention not to detect an almost imperceptible flush upon his face. “Well, now, for my part,” said he, with the most natural air possible, “I am not an enemy of jesting, my dear Monsieur d’Artagnan; my soldiers will tell you that even many times in camp, I listened very indifferently, and with a certain pleasure, to the satirical songs which the army of Lambert passed into mine, and which, certainly, would have caused the ears of a general more susceptible than I am to tingle.”
“Oh, my lord,” said d’Artagnan, “I know you are a complete man; I know you have been, for a long time, placed above human miseries; but there are jests and jests of a certain kind, which have the power of irritating me beyond expression.”
“May I inquire what kind, my friend?”
“Such as are directed against my friends or against people I respect, my lord!”
Monck made a slight movement, which d’Artagnan perceived. “Eh! and in what,” asked Monck, “in what can the stroke of a pin which scratches another tickle your skin? Answer me that.”
“My lord, I can explain it to you in a single sentence; it concerns you.”
Monck advanced a single step towards d’Artagnan. “Concerns me?” said he.
“Yes, and this is what I cannot explain; but that arises, perhaps, from my want of knowledge
