“I promise you all you wish. What is the matter? Speak!”
“It is, my lord, that I am not quite pleased with the king.”
“Indeed! And on what account, my dear lieutenant?”
“Because his majesty gives way sometimes to jest very compromising for his servants; and jesting, my lord, is a weapon that seriously wounds men of the sword, as we are.”
Monk did all in his power not to betray his thought, but D’Artagnan watched him with too close an attention not to detect an almost imperceptible flush upon his face. “Well, now, for my part,” said he, with the most natural air possible, “I am not an enemy of jesting, my dear Monsieur d’Artagnan; my soldiers will tell you that even many times in camp, I listened very indifferently, and with a certain pleasure, to the satirical songs which the army of Lambert passed into mine, and which, certainly, would have caused the ears of a general more susceptible than I am to tingle.”
“Oh, my lord,” said D’Artagnan, “I know you are a complete man; I know you have been, for a long time placed above human miseries; but there are jests and jests of a certain kind, which have the power of irritating me beyond expression.”
“May I inquire what kind, my friend?”
“Such as are directed against my friends or against people I respect, my lord!”
Monk made a slight movement, which D’Artagnan perceived. “Eh! and in what,” asked Monk, “in what can the stroke of a pin which scratches another tickle your skin? Answer me that.”
“My lord, I can explain it to you in one single sentence; it concerns you.”