The king walked several times up and down his chamber; it was very plain that he burned with a desire to speak, but that he was restrained by some fear or other. The lieutenant, standing motionless, hat in hand, watched him making these evolutions, and, whilst looking at him, grumbled to himself, biting his mustache:
“He has not half a crown worth of resolution! Parole d’honneur! I would lay a wager he does not speak at all!”
The king continued to walk about, casting from time to time a side glance at the lieutenant. “He is the very image of his father,” continued the latter, in is secret soliloquy, “he is at once proud, avaricious, and timid. The devil take his master, say I.”
The king stopped. “Lieutenant,” said he.
“I am here, sire.”
“Why did you cry out this evening, down below in the salons—‘The king’s service! His majesty’s musketeers!’”
“Because you gave me the order, sire.”
“I?” “Yourself.”
“Indeed, I did not say a word, monsieur.”
“Sire, an order is given by a sign, by a gesture, by a glance, as intelligibly, as freely, and as clearly as by word of mouth. A servant who has nothing but ears is not half a good servant.”