“Decidedly,” thought the Gascon; and this thought was the result of the reflections which he had just whispered to himself and which we have repeated aloud—“decidedly, I must be reconciled with M. Monk, and acquire a proof of his perfect indifference for the past. If, and God forbid it should be so! he is still sulky and reserved in the expression of this sentiment, I shall give my money to Athos to take away with him, and remain in England just long enough to unmask him, then, as I have a quick eye and a light foot, I shall notice the first hostile sign; to decamp or conceal myself at the residence of my lord of Buckingham, who seems a good sort of devil at the bottom, and to whom, in return for his hospitality, I shall relate all that history of the diamonds, which can now compromise nobody but an old queen, who need not be ashamed, after being the wife of a miserly creature like Mazarin, of having formerly been the mistress of a handsome nobleman like Buckingham. Mordioux! that is the thing, and this Monk shall not get the better of me. Eh? and besides I have an idea!” We know that, in general, D’Artagnan was not wanting in ideas; and during this soliloquy, D’Artagnan buttoned his vest up to the chin, and nothing excited his imagination like this preparation for a combat of any kind, called accinction by the Romans. He was quite heated when he reached the mansion of the Duke of Albemarle. He was introduced to the viceroy with a promptitude which proved that he was considered as one of the household. Monk was in his business-closet. “My lord,” said D’Artagnan, with that expression of frankness which the Gascon knew so well how to assume, “my lord, I have come to ask your grace’s advice!” Monk, as closely buttoned up morally as his antagonist was physically, replied: “Ask, my friend;” and his countenance presented an expression not less open than that of D’Artagnan. “My lord, in the first place, promise me secrecy and indulgence.” “I promise you all you wish. What is the matter? Speak!” “It is, my lord, that I am not quite pleased with the king.” “Indeed! And on what account, my dear lieutenant?” “Because his majesty gives way sometimes to jest very compromising for his servants; and jesting, my lord, is a weapon that seriously wounds men of the sword, as we are.” Monk did all in his power not to betray his thought, but D’Artagnan watched him with too close an attention not to detect an almost imperceptible flush upon his face. “Well, now, for my part,” said he, with the most natural air possible, “I am not an enemy of jesting, my dear Monsieur d’Artagnan; my soldiers will tell you that even many times in camp, I listened very indifferently, and with a certain pleasure, to the satirical songs which the army of Lambert passed into mine, and which, certainly, would have caused the ears of a general more susceptible than I am to tingle.”