The king dashed down his pen violently. “Leave the room, monsieur!” he said.
“Not so, if it please your majesty.”
“What is that you say?”
“Sire, I came to speak gently and temperately to your majesty; your majesty got into a passion with me; that is a misfortune; but I shall not the less on that account say what I had to say to you.”
“Your resignation, monsieur,—your resignation!” cried the king.
“Sire, you know whether I care about my resignation or not, since at Blois, on the very day when you refused King Charles the million which my friend the Comte de la Fere gave him, I then tendered my resignation to your majesty.”
“Very well, monsieur—do it at once!”
“No, sire; for there is no question of my resignation at the present moment. Your majesty took up your pen just now to send me to the Bastile,—why should you change your intention?”
“D’Artagnan! Gascon that you are! who is king, allow me to ask,—you or myself?”
“You, sire, unfortunately.”