“But, sire,” said the duke, “your majesty knows that it is impossible.”
“That is to say, my dear Buckingham, that it is impossible until it happens.”
“Do not forget, sire, that the young man is a perfect lion, and that his wrath is terrible.”
“I don’t deny it, my dear duke.”
“And that if he sees that his misfortune is certain, so much the worse for the author of it.”
“I don’t deny it; but what the deuce am I to do?”
“Were it the king himself,” cried Buckingham, “I would not answer for him.”
“Oh, the king has his musketeers to take care of him,” said Charles, quietly; “I know that perfectly well, for I was kept dancing attendance in his ante-chamber at Blois. He has M. d’Artagnan, and what better guardian could the king have than M. d’Artagnan? I should make myself perfectly easy with twenty storms of passion, such as Bragelonne might display, if I had four guardians like D’Artagnan.”
“But I entreat your majesty, who is so good and kind, to reflect a little.”
“Stay,” said Charles II., presenting the letter to the duke, “read, and answer yourself what you would do in my place.”