“Yes,” murmured the agitated king, without, however, daring to manifest his emotion, for it had no other cause than contact with a nature intrinsically noble. “Yes, monsieur, you say truly:—wherever you were, you were the king’s. But in changing your garrison, believe me you will find an advancement of which you are worthy.”
Raoul saw that this ended what the king had to say to him. And with the perfect tact which characterized his refined nature, he bowed and retired.
“Is there anything else, monsieur, of which you have to inform me?” said the king, when he found himself again alone with D’Artagnan.
“Yes, sire, and I kept that news for the last, for it is sad, and will clothe European royalty in mourning.”
“What do you tell me?”
“Sire, in passing through Blois, a word, a sad word, echoed from the palace, struck my ear.”
“In truth, you terrify me, M. d’Artagnan.”
“Sire, this word was pronounced to me by a piqueur, who wore crape on his arm.”
“My uncle, Gaston of Orleans, perhaps.”
“Sire, he has rendered his last sigh.”