At these words Louis cast down his eyes. It appeared to him that the shade of the unfortunate Philippe passed between D’Artagnan and himself, to evoke the remembrance of that terrible adventure. Almost at the same moment an officer entered and placed a dispatch in the hands of the king, who, in his turn, changed color, while reading it.
“Monsieur,” said he, “what I learn here you would know later; it is better I should tell you, and that you should learn it from the mouth of your king. A battle has taken place at Belle-Isle.”
“Is it possible?” said D’Artagnan, with a calm air, though his heart was beating fast enough to choke him. “Well, sire?”
“Well, monsieur—and I have lost a hundred and ten men.”
A beam of joy and pride shone in the eyes of D’Artagnan. “And the rebels?” said he.
“The rebels have fled,” said the king.
D’Artagnan could not restrain a cry of triumph. “Only,” added the king, “I have a fleet which closely blockades Belle-Isle, and I am certain not a bark can escape.”
“So that,” said the musketeer, brought back to his dismal idea, “if these two gentlemen are taken—”
“They will be hanged,” said the king, quietly.
“And do they know it?” replied D’Artagnan, repressing his trembling.