“You, my lord?”
“Yes, I; shall I repeat to you some of my verses?”
“Just as you please, my lord. I do not understand Italian.”
“Yes, but you understand French,” and Mazarin laid his hand upon Guitant’s shoulder. “My good, my brave Guitant, whatsoever command I may give you in that language—in French—whatever I may order you to do, will you not perform it?”
“Certainly. I have already answered that question in the affirmative; but that command must come from the queen herself.”
“Yes! ah yes!” Mazarin bit his lips as he spoke; “I know your devotion to her majesty.”
“I have been a captain in the queen’s guards for twenty years,” was the reply.
“En route, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said the cardinal; “all goes well in this direction.”
D’Artagnan, in the meantime, had taken the head of his detachment without a word and with that ready and profound obedience which marks the character of an old soldier.
He led the way toward the hill of Saint Roche. The Rue Richelieu and the Rue Villedot were then, owing to their vicinity to the ramparts, less frequented than any others in that direction, for the town was thinly inhabited thereabout.