“Yes, indeed, quite so.”
“In that case, I am less uneasy,” said Raoul.
“Uneasy—and about what?” inquired Athos.
“Forgive me, monsieur,” said Raoul, “but knowing so well the regard and affection you have for me, I was afraid you might possibly have expressed somewhat plainly to his majesty my own sufferings and your indignation, and that the king had consequently—”
“And that the king had consequently?” repeated D’Artagnan; “well, go on, finish what you were going to say.”
“I have now to ask you to forgive me, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said Raoul. “For a moment, and I cannot help confessing it, I trembled lest you had come here, not as M. d’Artagnan, but as captain of the musketeers.”
“You are mad, my poor boy,” cried D’Artagnan, with a burst of laughter, in which an exact observer might perhaps have wished to have heard a little more frankness.
“So much the better,” said Raoul.
“Yes, mad; and do you know what I would advise you to do?”
“Tell me, monsieur, for the advice is sure to be good, as it comes from you.”