“I had the honor of offering M. d’Artagnan a lodging; yes, sire.”
“That idea is your own, and yours solely?”
“Mine and mine only; yes, sire.”
“Well! but it could not be otherwise—the prisoner always lodges with his conqueror.”
Monk colored in his turn. “Ah! that is true,” said he, “I am M. d’Artagnan’s prisoner.”
“Without doubt, duke, since you are not yet ransomed, but have no care of that; it was I who took you out of M. d’Artagnan’s hands, and it is I who will pay your ransom.”
The eyes of D’Artagnan regained their gayety and their brilliancy. The Gascon began to understand. Charles advanced towards him.
“The general,” said he, “is not rich, and cannot pay you what he is worth. I am richer, certainly, but now that he is a duke, and if not a king, almost a king, he is worth a sum I could not perhaps pay. Come, M. d’Artagnan, be moderate with me; how much do I owe you?”
D’Artagnan, delighted at the turn things were taking, but not for a moment losing his self-possession, replied,—“Sire, your majesty has no occasion to be alarmed. When I had the good fortune to take his grace, M. Monk was only a general; it is therefore only a general’s ransom that is due to me. But if the general will have the kindness to deliver me his sword, I shall consider myself paid; for there is nothing in the world but the general’s sword which is worth so much as himself.”
“Odds fish! as my father said,” cried Charles. “That is a gallant proposal, and a gallant man, is he not, duke?”