"To me, musketeer! Look us both in the face, and see which is the paler, he or I."
The cry awoke D'Artagnan from his stupor, and struck the chord of obedience strong in the bosom of every soldier. He lifted his head, and striding straight up to Philippe laid his hand on his shoulder, saying quietly:—
"Monsieur, you are my prisoner."
Philippe remained absolutely still, as if nailed to the floor, his eyes fixed despairingly on the King who was his brother. His silence reproached him as no words could have done, with the bitterness of the past and the tortures of the future.
And the King understood, and his soul sank within him. His eyes fell, and drawing his brother and sister-in-law with him, he hastily quitted the room; forgetting in his agitation even his mother, lying motionless on the couch beside him, not three paces from the son whom for the second time she was allowing to be condemned to a death in life.
Philippe drew near to her, and said softly:—
"If you had not been my mother, madame, I must have cursed you for the misery you have caused me."
D'Artagnan overheard, and a shiver of pity passed through him. He bowed respectfully to the young prince, and said:—
"Forgive me, monseigneur; I am only a soldier, and my faith is due to him who has left us."
"Thank you, M. D'Artagnan. But what has become of M. D'Herblay?"