“I cannot conceive that in any way,” said Monck.
“But so it is. The king, who owed me a reward, might have rewarded me as a soldier, without contriving that history of the ransom, which affects you, my lord.”
“No,” said Monck, laughing: “it does not affect me in any way, I can assure you.”
“Not as regards me, I can understand; you know me, my lord, I am so discreet that the grave would appear a babbler compared to me; but—do you understand, my lord?”
“No,” replied Monck, with persistent obstinacy.
“If another knew the secret which I know—”
“What secret?”
“Eh! my lord, why, that unfortunate secret of Newcastle.”
“Oh! the million of the Comte de la Fère?”
“No, my lord, no; the enterprise made upon Your Grace’s person.”
“It was well played, chevalier, that is all, and no more is to be said about it: you are a soldier, both brave and cunning, which proves that you unite the qualities of Fabius and Hannibal. You employed your means, force and cunning: there is nothing to be said against that: I ought to have been on guard.”
“Ah! yes; I know, my lord, and I expected nothing less from your partiality; so that if it were only the abduction in itself, mordioux! that would be nothing; but there are—”
“What?”
“The circumstances of that abduction.”
“What circumstances?”
“Oh! you know very well what I mean, my lord.”
“No, curse me if I do.”
“There is—in truth, it is difficult to speak it.”
“There is?”
“Well, there is that devil of a box!”
Monck colored visibly. “Well, I have forgotten it.”
“Deal box,” continued d’Artagnan, “with holes for the nose and mouth. In truth, my lord, all the rest was well; but the box, the box! that was really a coarse joke.” Monck fidgeted about in his chair. “And, notwithstanding my having done that,” resumed d’Artagnan, “I, a soldier of fortune, it was quite simple, because by the side of that action, a little inconsiderate I admit, which I committed, but which the gravity of the case may excuse, I am circumspect and reserved.”
“Oh!” said Monck, “believe me, I know you well, Monsieur d’Artagnan, and I appreciate you.”
D’Artagnan never took his eyes off Monck; studying all which passed in the mind of the general, as he prosecuted his idea. “But it does not concern me,” resumed he.
“Well, then, who does it concern?” said Monck, who began to grow a little impatient.
“It relates to the king, who will never restrain his tongue.”
“Well! and suppose he should say all he knows?” said Monck, with a degree of hesitation.
“My lord,” replied d’Artagnan, “do not dissemble, I implore you, with a man who speaks so frankly as I do. You have a right to feel your susceptibility excited, however benignant it may be. What, the devil! it is not the place for a man like you, a man who plays with crowns and scepters as a Bohemian plays with his balls; it is not the place of a serious man, I said, to be shut up in a box like some freak of natural history; for you must understand it would make all your enemies ready to burst with laughter, and you are so great, so noble, so generous, that you must have many enemies. This secret is enough to set half the human race laughing, if you were represented in that box. It is not decent to have the second personage in the kingdom laughed at.”
Monck was quite out of countenance at the idea of seeing himself represented in this box. Ridicule, as d’Artagnan had judiciously foreseen, acted upon him in a manner which neither the chances of war, the aspirations of ambition, nor the fear of death had been able to do.
Good
, thought the Gascon, he is frightened: I am safe.
“Oh! as to the king,” said Monck, “fear nothing, my dear Monsieur d’Artagnan; the king will not jest with Monck, I assure you!”
The momentary flash of his eye was noticed by d’Artagnan. Monck lowered his tone immediately: “The king,” continued he, “is of too noble a nature, the king’s heart is too high to allow him to wish ill to those who do him good.”
“Oh! certainly,” cried d’Artagnan. “I am entirely of Your Grace’s opinion with regard to his heart, but not as to his head—it is good, but it is trifling.”
“The king will not trifle with Monck, be assured.”
“Then you are quite at ease, my lord?”
“On that side, at least! yes, perfectly!”
“Oh! I understand you; you are at ease as far as the king is concerned?”
“I have told you I was.”
“But you are not so much so on my account?”
“I thought I had told you that I had faith in your loyalty and discretion.”
“No doubt, no doubt, but you must remember one thing—”
“What is that?”
“That I was not alone, that I had companions; and what companions!”
“Oh! yes, I know them.”
“And, unfortunately, my lord, they know you, too!”
“Well?”
“Well; they are yonder, at Boulogne, waiting for me.”
“And you fear—”
“Yes, I fear that in my absence—Parbleu! If I were near them, I could answer for their silence.”
“Was I not right in saying that the danger, if there was any danger, would not come from His Majesty, however disposed he may be to jest, but from your companions, as you say? To be laughed at by a king may be tolerable, but by the horse-boys and scamps of the army! Damn it!”
“Yes, I understand, that would be unbearable; that is why, my lord, I came to say—do you not think it would be better for me to set out for France as soon as possible?”
“Certainly, if you think your presence—”
“Would impose silence upon those scoundrels? Oh! I am sure of that, my lord.”
“Your presence will not prevent the report from spreading, if the tale
