D’Artagnan saw the movement and imitated it. “Yes, sire,” said he.
“Very well; have the goodness to wait till I have cast this up.”
D’Artagnan made no reply; he only bowed. “That is polite enough,” thought he; “I have nothing to say.”
Louis made a violent dash with his pen, and threw it angrily away.
“Ah! go on, work yourself up!” thought the musketeer; “you will put me at my ease. You shall find I did not empty the bag, the other day, at Blois.”
Louis rose from his seat, passed his hand over his brow, then, stopping opposite to D’Artagnan, he looked at him with an air at once imperious and kind. “What the devil does he want with me? I wish he would begin!” thought the musketeer.
“Monsieur,” said the king, “you know, without doubt, that monsieur le cardinal is dead?”
“I suspected so, sire.”
“You know that, consequently, I am master in my own kingdom?”
“That is not a thing that dates from the death of monsieur le cardinal, sire; a man is always master in his own house, when he wishes to be so.”