“Mordioux!” grumbled D’Artagnan, “there is the shower beginning again! Oh! it is enough to turn one’s brain!” and he turned away with an air so sorrowful and so comically piteous, that the king, who caught it, could not restrain a smile. Monk was preparing to leave the room, to take leave of Charles.
“What! my trusty and well-beloved!” said the king to the duke, “are you going?”
“With your majesty’s permission, for in truth I am weary. The emotions of the day have worn me out; I stand in need of rest.”
“But,” said the king, “you are not going without M. d’Artagnan, I hope.”
“Why not, sire?” said the old warrior.
“Well! you know very well why,” said the king.
Monk looked at Charles with astonishment.
“Oh! it may be possible; but if you forget, you, M. d’Artagnan, do not.”
Astonishment was painted on the face of the musketeer.
“Well, then, duke,” said the king, “do you not lodge with M. d’Artagnan?”