“I have reason, mordioux! Thirty-two hours in the saddle, I ride night and day, I perform prodigies of speed, I arrive stiff as the corpse of a man who has been hung—and another arrives before me! Come, sire, I am a fool!—My discharge, sire!”
“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said Louis, leaning his white hand upon the dusty arm of the musketeer, “what I tell you will not at all affect that which I promised you. A king’s word given must be kept.” And the king going straight to his table, opened a drawer, and took out a folded paper. “Here is your commission of captain of musketeers; you have won it, Monsieur d’Artagnan.”
D’Artagnan opened the paper eagerly, and scanned it twice. He could scarcely believe his eyes.
“And this commission is given you,” continued the king, “not only on account of your journey to Belle-Isle, but, moreover, for your brave intervention at the Place de Greve. There, likewise, you served me valiantly.”
“Ah, ah!” said D’Artagnan, without his self-command being able to prevent a blush from mounting to his eyes—“you know that also, sire?”
“Yes, I know it.”
The king possessed a piercing glance and an infallible judgment, when it was his object to read men’s minds. “You have something to say,” said he to the musketeer, “something to say which you do not say. Come, speak freely, monsieur; you know that I told you, once for all, that you are to be always quite frank with me.”
“Well, sire! what I have to say is this, that I would prefer being made captain of musketeers for having charged a battery at the head of my company, or taken a city, than for causing two wretches to be hung.”
“Is this quite true you tell me?”
“And why should your majesty suspect me of dissimulation, I ask?”