“A propos,” continued Charles, “do you think my dear Monk has really pardoned you?”
“Pardoned me! yes, I hope so, sire!”
“Eh!—but it was a cruel trick! Odds fish! to pack up the first personage of the English revolution like a herring. In your place I would not trust him, chevalier.”
“But, sire—”
“Yes, I know very well Monk calls you his friend, but he has too penetrating an eye not to have a memory, and too lofty a brow not to be very proud, you know, grande supercilium.”
“I shall certainly learn Latin,” said D’Artagnan to himself.
“But stop,” cried the merry monarch, “I must manage your reconciliation; I know how to set about it; so—”
D’Artagnan bit his mustache. “Will your majesty permit me to tell you the truth?”
“Speak, chevalier, speak.”
“Well, sire, you alarm me greatly. If your majesty undertakes the affair, as you seem inclined to do, I am a lost man; the duke will have me assassinated.”