The officer imitated this carriage, this slowness, this sadness, and leisurely mounted his horse. The king pushed on sharply, the lieutenant followed him. At the bridge Louis turned around for the last time. The lieutenant, patient as a god who has eternity behind and before him, still hoped for a return of energy. But it was groundless, nothing appeared. Louis gained the street which led to the castle, and entered as seven was striking. When the king had returned, and the musketeer, who saw everything, had seen a corner of the tapestry over the cardinal’s window lifted up, he breathed a profound sigh, like a man unloosed from the tightest bonds, and said in a low voice:
“Now then, my officer, I hope that it is over.”
The king summoned his gentleman. “Please to understand I shall receive nobody before two o’clock,” said he.
“Sire,” replied the gentleman, “there is, however, some one who requests admittance.”
“Who is that?”
“Your lieutenant of musketeers.”
“He who accompanied me?”
“Yes, sire.”
“Ah,” said the king, “let him come in.”
The officer entered. The king made a sign, and the gentleman and the valet retired. Louis followed them with his eyes until they had shut the door, and when the tapestries had fallen behind them,—“You remind me by your presence, monsieur, of something I had forgotten to recommend to you, that is to say, the most absolute discretion.”