Monk advanced a single step towards D’Artagnan. “Concerns me?” said he.
“Yes, and this is what I cannot explain; but that arises, perhaps, from my want of knowledge of his character. How can the king have the heart to jest about a man who has rendered him so many and such great services? How can one understand that he should amuse himself in setting by the ears a lion like you with a gnat like me?”
“I cannot conceive that in any way,” said Monk.
“But so it is. The king, who owed me a reward, might have rewarded me as a soldier, without contriving that history of the ransom, which affects you, my lord.”
“No,” said Monk, laughing: “it does not affect me in any way, I can assure you.”
“Not as regards me, I can understand, you know me, my lord, I am so discreet that the grave would appear a babbler compared to me; but—do you understand, my lord?”
“No,” replied Monk, with persistent obstinacy.
“If another knew the secret which I know——”
“What secret?”
“Eh! my lord, why, that unfortunate secret of Newcastle.”