“That is, after having declared to me all you thought to be true, with regard to my mode of thinking and acting. That is always a merit. You began by telling me that you had served my family thirty years, and were fatigued.”
“I said so; yes, sire.”
“And you afterwards admitted that that fatigue was a pretext, and that discontent was the real cause.”
“I was discontented, in fact, but that discontent has never betrayed itself, that I know of, and if, like a man of heart, I have spoken out before your majesty, I have not even thought of the matter, before anybody else.”
“Do not excuse yourself, D’Artagnan, but continue to listen to me. When making me the reproach that you were discontented, you received in reply a promise:—‘Wait.’—Is not that true?”
“Yes, sire, as true as what I told you.”
“You answered me, ‘Hereafter! No, now, immediately.’ Do not excuse yourself, I tell you. It was natural, but you had no charity for your poor prince, Monsieur d’Artagnan.”
“Sire! charity for a king, on the part of a poor soldier!”
“You understand me very well; you knew that I stood in need of it; you knew very well that I was not master; you knew very well that my hope was in the future. Now, you answered me when I spoke of that future, ‘My discharge,—and that directly.’”
“That is true,” murmured D’Artagnan, biting his mustache.