“Oh! your majesty is mistaken,” said the musketeer, coolly; “I know how to speak to kings in misfortune. It is only when they are in misfortune that they speak to me; once fortunate, they look upon me no more. I have, then, for your majesty, not only the greatest respect, but, still more, the most absolute devotion; and that, believe me, with me, sire, means something. Now, hearing your majesty complain of fate, I found that you were noble and generous, and bore misfortune well.” “In truth,” said Charles, much astonished, “I do not know which I ought to prefer, your freedoms or your respects.” “You will choose presently, sire,” said D’Artagnan. “Then your majesty complained to your brother, Louis XIV., of the difficulty you experienced in returning to England and regaining your throne for want of men and money.” Charles allowed a movement of impatience to escape him. “And the principal object your majesty found in your way,” continued D’Artagnan, “was a certain general commanding the armies of the parliament, and who was playing yonder the part of another Cromwell. Did not your majesty say so?” “Yes, but I repeat to you, monsieur, those words were for the king’s ears alone.” “And you will see, sire, that it is very fortunate that they fell into those of his lieutenant of musketeers. That man so troublesome to your majesty was one General Monk, I believe; did I not hear his name correctly, sire?” “Yes, monsieur, but once more, to what purpose are all these questions?” “Oh! I know very well, sire, that etiquette will not allow kings to be questioned. I hope, however, presently you will pardon my want of etiquette. Your majesty added that, notwithstanding, if you could see him, confer with him, and meet him face to face, you would triumph, either by force or persuasion, over that obstacle—the only serious one, the only insurmountable one, the only real one you met with on your road.” “All that is true, monsieur: my destiny, my future, my obscurity, or my glory depend upon that man; but what do you draw from that?” “One thing alone, that if this General Monk is troublesome to the point your majesty describes, it would be expedient to get rid of him or to make an ally of him.” “Monsieur, a king who has neither army nor money, as you have heard my conversation with my brother Louis, has no means of acting against a man like Monk.” “Yes, sire, that was your opinion, I know very well; but, fortunately, for you, it was not mine.” “What do you mean by that?” “That, without an army and without a million, I have done—I, myself—what your majesty thought could alone be done with an army and a million.” “How! What do you say? What have you done?” “What have I done? Eh! well, sire, I went yonder to take this man who is so troublesome to your majesty.” “In England?” “Exactly, sire.” “You went to take Monk in England?” “Should I by chance have done wrong, sire?” “In truth, you are mad, monsieur!” “Not the least in the world, sire.”