“I wish to spare you the trouble of coming four times to my office.”
“You overwhelm me, monsieur.”
“I do only what I ought to do, monsieur le chevalier; and I hope you will not bear me any malice on account of the rude reception my brother gave you. He is of a sour, capricious disposition.”
“Monsieur,” said D’Artagnan, “believe me, nothing would grieve me more than an excuse from you.”
“Therefore I will make no more, and will content myself with asking you a favor.”
“Oh, monsieur.”
Fouquet drew from his finger a ring worth about a thousand pistoles. “Monsieur,” said he, “this stone was given me by a friend of my childhood, by a man to whom you have rendered a great service.”
“A service—I?” said the musketeer, “I have rendered a service to one of your friends?”
“You cannot have forgotten it, monsieur, for it dates this very day.”
“And that friend’s name was——”