Charles gently put his hand behind him, and grasped the butt of a pistol of a new construction, that was discharged, not by a match, as formerly, but by a flint brought in contact with a wheel of steel. He fixed his dull eyes steadily on the newcomer; meantime he whistled, with perfect precision and with remarkable sweetness, one of his favorite hunting-airs.
After a pause of some minutes, during which the expression of the stranger's face grew more and more discomposed,
"You are the person," said the King, "called François de Louvièrs Maurevel?"
"Yes, sire."
"Captain of petardeers?"
"Yes, sire."
"I wanted to see you."
Maurevel made a low bow.
"You know," continued Charles, laying a stress on each word, "that I love all my subjects equally?"
"I know," stammered Maurevel, "that your Majesty is the father of your people."