“It is unaccountably strange,” said D’Artagnan to himself, whilst his friend, on his knees, received the eminent order which the king conferred on him—“it is almost incredible that I have always seen showers of prosperity fall upon all who surrounded me, and that not a drop ever reached me! If I were a jealous man it would be enough to make one tear one’s hair, parole d’honneur!” Athos rose from his knees, and Charles embraced him tenderly. “General!” said he to Monk—then stopping with a smile, “pardon me, duke, I mean. No wonder if I make a mistake; the word duke is too short for me, I always seek some title to lengthen it. I should wish to see you so near my throne, that I might say to you as to Louis XIV., my brother! Oh! I have it, and you will be almost my brother, for I make you viceroy of Ireland and of Scotland, my dear duke. So, after that fashion, henceforward I shall not make a mistake.” The duke seized the hand of the king, but without enthusiasm, without joy, as he did everything. His heart, however, had been moved by this last favor. Charles, by skillfully husbanding his generosity, had given the duke time to wish, although he might not have wished for so much as was given him. “Mordioux!” grumbled D’Artagnan, “there is the shower beginning again! Oh! it is enough to turn one’s brain!” and he turned away with an air so sorrowful and so comically piteous, that the king, who caught it, could not restrain a smile. Monk was preparing to leave the room, to take leave of Charles. “What! my trusty and well-beloved!” said the king to the duke, “are you going?” “With your majesty’s permission, for in truth I am weary. The emotions of the day have worn me out; I stand in need of rest.” “But,” said the king, “you are not going without M. d’Artagnan, I hope.” “Why not, sire?” said the old warrior. “Well! you know very well why,” said the king. Monk looked at Charles with astonishment. “Oh! it may be possible; but if you forget, you, M. d’Artagnan, do not.” Astonishment was painted on the face of the musketeer. “Well, then, duke,” said the king, “do you not lodge with M. d’Artagnan?” “I had the honor of offering M. d’Artagnan a lodging; yes, sire.” “That idea is your own, and yours solely?” “Mine and mine only; yes, sire.” “Well! but it could not be otherwise—the prisoner always lodges with his conqueror.” Monk colored in his turn. “Ah! that is true,” said he, “I am M. d’Artagnan’s prisoner.” “Without doubt, duke, since you are not yet ransomed, but have no care of that; it was I who took you out of M. d’Artagnan’s hands, and it is I who will pay your ransom.” The eyes of D’Artagnan regained their gayety and their brilliancy. The Gascon began to understand. Charles advanced towards him.