“Certainly,” said Mazarin.
“It is the triumph of a good cause which fills the whole house of France with joy,” said Anne of Austria.
“I continue,” said Louis XIV. “Is it also true that a single man penetrated to Monk, in his camp, and carried him off?”
“That man had ten auxiliaries, taken from a very inferior rank.”
“And nothing but them?”
“Nothing more.”
“And he is named?”
“Monsieur d’Artagnan, formerly lieutenant of the musketeers of your majesty.”
Anne of Austria colored; Mazarin became yellow with shame; Louis XIV. was deeply thoughtful, and a drop of moisture fell from his pale brow. “What men!” murmured he. And, involuntarily, he darted a glance at the minister which would have terrified him, if Mazarin, at the moment, had not concealed his head under his pillow.
“Monsieur,” said the young Duc d’Anjou, placing his hand, delicate and white as that of a woman, upon the arm of Athos, “tell that brave man, I beg you, that Monsieur, brother of the king, will to-morrow drink his health before five hundred of the best gentlemen of France.” And, on finishing these words, the young man, perceiving that his enthusiasm had deranged one of his ruffles, set to work to put it to rights with the greatest care imaginable.