“And I,” said the marshal, “what am I to do?”
“Wait here to receive the troops. I shall either return for them myself or shall send a courier directing you to bring them to me. Twenty guards, well mounted, are all that I shall need for my escort.”
“That is very few,” said the marshal.
“It is enough,” replied the prince. “Have you a good horse, Monsieur de Bragelonne?”
“My horse was killed this morning, my lord, and I am mounted provisionally on my lackey’s.”
“Choose for yourself in my stables the horse you like best. No false modesty; take the best horse you can find. You will need it this evening, perhaps; you will certainly need it to-morrow.”
Raoul didn’t wait to be told twice; he knew that with superiors, especially when those superiors are princes, the highest politeness is to obey without delay or argument; he went down to the stables, picked out a pie-bald Andalusian horse, saddled and bridled it himself, for Athos had advised him to trust no one with those important offices at a time of danger, and went to rejoin the prince, who at that moment mounted his horse.
“Now, monsieur,” he said to Raoul, “will you give me the letter you have brought?”
Raoul handed the letter to the prince.
“Keep near me,” said the latter.