D’Artagnan bowed with respect; Monk took no notice.
“For M. d’Artagnan—and observe, M. Monk, I do not say this to excuse myself—for M. d’Artagnan,” continued the king, “went to England of his free will, without interest, without orders, without hope, like a true gentleman as he is, to render a service to an unfortunate king, and to add to the illustrious actions of an existence, already so well filled, one glorious deed more.”
D’Artagnan colored a little, and coughed to keep his countenance. Monk did not stir.
“You do not believe what I tell you, M. Monk,” continued the king. “I can understand that,—such proofs of devotion are so rare, that their reality may well be put in doubt.”
“Monsieur would do wrong not to believe you, sire,” cried D’Artagnan: “for that which your majesty has said is the exact truth, and the truth so exact that it seems, in going to fetch the general, I have done something which sets everything wrong. In truth, if it be so, I am in despair.”
“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said the king, pressing the hand of the musketeer, “you have obliged me as much as if you had promoted the success of my cause, for you have revealed to me an unknown friend, to whom I shall ever be grateful, and whom I shall always love.” And the king pressed his hand cordially. “And,” continued he, bowing to Monk, “an enemy whom I shall henceforth esteem at his proper value.”
The eyes of the Puritan flashed, but only once, and his countenance, for an instant, illuminated by that flash, resumed its somber impassibility.
“Then, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” continued Charles, “this is what was about to happen: M. le Comte de la Fere, whom you know, I believe, has set out for Newcastle.”
“What, Athos!” exclaimed D’Artagnan.
“Yes, that was his nom de guerre, I believe. The Comte de la Fere had then set out for Newcastle, and was going, perhaps, to bring the general to hold a conference with me or with those of my party, when you violently, as it appears, interfered with the negotiation.”