“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 Valliere 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 Valliere was engaged—”
“Monsieur! monsieur!”
“I have heard it said so in every direction, sire. Your majesty’s affection for Mademoiselle de la Valliere 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 Valliere,” he said suddenly, with mingled nobleness of feeling and passion.