“My dear D’Artagnan,” said he, pressing his hand affectionately, “should you not exercise a little more philosophy? Is it not some further satisfaction to you to have saved my life as you did by arriving so fortunately with Monk, when those damned parliamentarians wanted to burn me alive?” “Well, but you, in some degree, deserved a little burning, my friend.” “How so? What, for having saved King Charles’s million?” “What million?” “Ah, that is true! you never knew that, my friend; but you must not be angry, for it was not my secret. That word ‘Remember’ which the king pronounced upon the scaffold.” “And which means ‘souviens-toi!’” “Exactly. That was signified. ‘Remember there is a million buried in the vaults of Newcastle Abbey, and that that million belongs to my son.’” “Ah! very well, I understand. But what I understand likewise, and what is very frightful, is, that every time his majesty Charles II. will think of me, he will say to himself: ‘There is the man who came very near making me lose my crown. Fortunately I was generous, great, full of presence of mind.’ That will be said by the young gentleman in a shabby black doublet, who came to the chateau of Blois, hat in hand, to ask me if I would give him access to the king of France.” “D’Artagnan! D’Artagnan!” said Athos, laying his hand on the shoulder of the musketeer, “you are unjust.” “I have a right to be so.” “No—for you are ignorant of the future.” D’Artagnan looked his friend full in the face, and began to laugh. “In truth, my dear Athos,” said he, “you have some sayings so superb, that they only belong to you and M. le Cardinal Mazarin.” Athos frowned slightly. “I beg your pardon,” continued D’Artagnan, laughing, “I beg your pardon, if I have offended you. The future! Nein! what pretty words are words that promise, and how well they fill the mouth in default of other things! Mordioux! After having met with so many who promised, when shall I find one who will give? But, let that pass!” continued D’Artagnan. “What are you doing here, my dear Athos? Are you the king’s treasurer?” “How—why the king’s treasurer?” “Well, since the king possesses a million, he must want a treasurer. The king of France, although he is not worth a sou, has still a superintendent of finance, M. Fouquet. It is true that, in exchange, M. Fouquet, they say, has a good number of millions of his own.” “Oh! our million was spent long ago,” said Athos, laughing in his turn.