“Ah! Mordioux! that’s true,” cried D’Artagnan, coloring; “there is Planchet. I had forgotten Planchet, upon my life! Well! there are my three hundred thousand crowns broken into. That’s a pity! it was a round sum, and sounded well. That is true, Athos; I am no longer rich. What a memory you have!” “Tolerably good; yes, thank God!” “The worthy Planchet!” grumbled D’Artagnan; “his was not a bad dream! What a speculation! Peste! Well! what is said is said.” “How much are you to give him?” “Oh!” said D’Artagnan, “he is not a bad fellow; I shall arrange matters with him. I have had a great deal of trouble, you see, and expenses; all that must be taken into account.” “My dear friend, I can depend upon you, and have no fear for the worthy Planchet; his interests are better in your hands than in his own. But now that you have nothing more to do here, we shall depart, if you please. You can go and thank his majesty, ask if he has any commands, and in six days we may be able to get sight of the towers of Notre Dame.” “My friend, I am most anxious to be off, and will go at once and pay my respects to the king.” “I,” said Athos, “am going to call upon some friends in the city, and shall then be at your service.” “Will you lend me Grimaud?” “With all my heart. What do you want to do with him?” “Something very simple, and which will not fatigue him; I shall only beg him to take charge of my pistols, which lie there on the table near that coffer.” “Very well!” replied Athos, imperturbably. “And he will not stir, will he?” “Not more than the pistols themselves.” “Then I shall go and take leave of his majesty. Au revoir!” D’Artagnan arrived at St. James’s, where Charles II. who was busy writing, kept him in the ante-chamber a full hour. Whilst walking about in the gallery, from the door to the window, from the window to the door, he thought he saw a cloak like Athos’s cross the vestibule; but at the moment he was going to ascertain if it were he, the usher summoned him to his majesty’s presence. Charles II. rubbed his hands while receiving the thanks of our friend. “Chevalier,” said he, “you are wrong to express gratitude to me; I have not paid you a quarter of the value of the history of the box into which you put the brave general—the excellent Duke of Albemarle, I mean.” And the king laughed heartily. D’Artagnan did not think it proper to interrupt his majesty, and bowed with much modesty. “A propos,” continued Charles, “do you think my dear Monk has really pardoned you?” “Pardoned me! yes, I hope so, sire!” “Eh!—but it was a cruel trick! Odds fish! to pack up the first personage of the English revolution like a herring. In your place I would not trust him, chevalier.” “But, sire——” “Yes, I know very well that Monk calls you his friend, but he has too penetrating an eye not to have a memory, and too lofty a brow not to be very proud, you know grande supercilium.” “I shall certainly learn Latin,” said D’Artagnan to himself.