“Parry, yes, my dear Monsieur d’Artagnan, it is I. What joy to see you once again!”
“You are right there, what joy!” said D’Artagnan, pressing the old man’s hand. “There, now you’ll go and inform the king, will you not?”
“But the king is asleep, my dear monsieur.”
“Mordioux! then wake him. He won’t scold you for having disturbed him, I will promise you.”
“You come on the part of the count, do you not?”
“The Comte de la Fere?”
“From Athos?”
“Ma foi! no; I come on my own part. Come, Parry, quick! The king—I want the king.”
Parry did not think it his duty to resist any longer; he knew D’Artagnan of old; he knew that, although a Gascon, his words never promised more than they could stand to. He crossed a court and a little garden, appeased the dog, that seemed most anxious to taste of the musketeer’s flesh, and went to knock at the window of a chamber forming the ground-floor of a little pavilion. Immediately a little dog inhabiting that chamber replied to the great dog inhabiting the court.
“Poor king!” said D’Artagnan to himself, “these are his body-guards. It is true he is not the worse guarded on that account.”