“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said the valet-de-chambre.
An officer, as he spoke, entered the apartment. He was a man between thirty-nine and forty years of age, of medium height but a very well proportioned figure; with an intellectual and animated physiognomy; his beard black, and his hair turning gray, as often happens when people have found life either too gay or too sad, more especially when they happen to be of swart complexion.
D’Artagnan advanced a few steps into the apartment.
How perfectly he remembered his former entrance into that very room! Seeing, however, no one there except a musketeer of his own troop, he fixed his eyes upon the supposed soldier, in whose dress, nevertheless, he recognized at the first glance the cardinal.
The lieutenant remained standing in a dignified but respectful posture, such as became a man of good birth, who had in the course of his life been frequently in the society of the highest nobles.
The cardinal looked at him with a cunning rather than serious glance, yet he examined his countenance with attention and after a momentary silence said:
“You are Monsieur d’Artagnan?”
“I am that individual,” replied the officer.
Mazarin gazed once more at a countenance full of intelligence, the play of which had been, nevertheless, subdued by age and experience; and D’Artagnan received the penetrating glance like one who had formerly sustained many a searching look, very different, indeed, from those which were inquiringly directed on him at that instant.
“Sir,” resumed the cardinal, “you are to come with me, or rather, I am to go with you.”