He could say no more; but though he hadn’t strength to speak he had enough for action. He rushed headlong to the street, and like the Greek from Marathon who fell in the square at Athens, with his laurel in his hand, Friquet reached Councillor Broussel’s threshold, and then fell exhausted, scattering on the floor the louis disgorged by his leather bag.
Mother Nanette began by picking up the louis; then she picked up Friquet.
In the meantime the cortege returned to the Palais Royal.
“That Monsieur d’Artagnan is a very brave man, mother,” said the young king.
“Yes, my son; and he rendered very important services to your father. Treat him kindly, therefore, in the future.”
“Captain,” said the young king to D’Artagnan, on descending from the carriage, “the queen has charged me to invite you to dinner to-day—you and your friend the Baron du Vallon.”
That was a great honor for D’Artagnan and for Porthos. Porthos was delighted; and yet during the entire repast he seemed to be preoccupied.
“What was the matter with you, baron?” D’Artagnan said to him as they descended the staircase of the Palais Royal. “You seemed at dinner to be anxious about something.”
“I was trying,” said Porthos, “to recall where I had seen that mendicant whom I must have killed.”
“And you couldn’t remember?”