“Ah! what a lucky chance to see you here, Monsieur d’Artagnan!” cried the falconer.
“It is rather I who should say that, messieurs,” replied the captain, “for nowadays, the king makes more frequent use of his musketeers than of his falcons.”
“Ah! it is not as it was in the good old times,” sighed the falconer. “Do you remember, Monsieur d’Artagnan, when the late king flew the pie in the vineyards beyond Beaugence? Ah! dame! you were not the captain of the musketeers at that time, Monsieur d’Artagnan.” [7]
“And you were nothing but under-corporal of the tiercelets,” replied D’Artagnan, laughing. “Never mind that, it was a good time, seeing that it is always a good time when we are young. Good day, monsieur the keeper of the harriers.”
“You do me honor, monsieur le comte,” said the latter. D’Artagnan made no reply. The title of comte had hardly struck him; D’Artagnan had been a comte four years.
“Are you not very much fatigued with the long journey you have taken, monsieur le capitaine?” continued the falconer. “It must be full two hundred leagues from hence to Pignerol.”
“Two hundred and sixty to go, and as many to return,” said D’Artagnan, quietly.
“And,” said the falconer, “is he well?”
“Who?” asked D’Artagnan.
“Why, poor M. Fouquet,” continued the falconer, in a low voice. The keeper of the harriers had prudently withdrawn.