Athos could not help laughing at this whimsical outbreak of his friend.
“My dear D’Artagnan,” said he, pressing his hand affectionately, “should you not exercise a little more philosophy? Is it not some further satisfaction to you to have saved my life as you did by arriving so fortunately with Monk, when those damned parliamentarians wanted to burn me alive?”
“Well, but you, in some degree, deserved a little burning, my friend.”
“How so? What, for having saved King Charles’s million?”
“What million?”
“Ah, that is true! you never knew that, my friend; but you must not be angry, for it was my secret. That word ‘REMEMBER’ which the king pronounced upon the scaffold.”
“And which means ‘souviens-toi!’”
“Exactly. That was signified. ‘Remember there is a million buried in the vaults of Newcastle Abbey, and that that million belongs to my son.’”
“Ah! very well, I understand. But what I understand likewise, and what is very frightful, is, that every time his majesty Charles II. will think of me, he will say to himself: ‘There is the man who came very near to making me lose my crown. Fortunately I was generous, great, full of presence of mind.’ That will be said by the young gentleman in a shabby black doublet, who came to the chateau of Blois, hat in hand, to ask me if I would give him access to the king of France.”
“D’Artagnan! D’Artagnan!” said Athos, laying his hand on the shoulder of the musketeer, “you are unjust.”