“Oh, my lord,” said D’Artagnan, “I know you are a complete man; I know you have been, for a long time placed above human miseries; but there are jests and jests of a certain kind, which have the power of irritating me beyond expression.” “May I inquire what kind, my friend?” “Such as are directed against my friends or against people I respect, my lord!” Monk made a slight movement, which D’Artagnan perceived. “Eh! and in what,” asked Monk, “in what can the stroke of a pin which scratches another tickle your skin? Answer me that.” “My lord, I can explain it to you in one single sentence; it concerns you.” Monk advanced a single step towards D’Artagnan. “Concerns me?” said he. “Yes, and this is what I cannot explain; but that arises, perhaps, from my want of knowledge of his character. How can the king have the heart to jest about a man who has rendered him so many and such great services? How can one understand that he should amuse himself in setting by the ears a lion like you with a gnat like me?” “I cannot conceive that in any way,” said Monk. “But so it is. The king, who owed me a reward, might have rewarded me as a soldier, without contriving that history of the ransom, which affects you, my lord.” “No,” said Monk, laughing: “it does not affect me in any way, I can assure you.” “Not as regards me, I can understand, you know me, my lord, I am so discreet that the grave would appear a babbler compared to me; but—do you understand, my lord?” “No,” replied Monk, with persistent obstinacy. “If another knew the secret which I know——” “What secret?” “Eh! my lord, why, that unfortunate secret of Newcastle.” “Oh! the million of M. le Comte de la Fere?” “No, my lord, no; the enterprise made upon you grace’s person.” “It was well played, chevalier, that is all, and no more is to be said about it: you are a soldier, both brave and cunning, which proves that you unite the qualities of Fabius and Hannibal. You employed your means, force and cunning: there is nothing to be said against that: I ought to have been on guard.” “Ah! yes; I know, my lord, and I expected nothing less from your partiality; so that if it were only the abduction in itself, Mordieux! that would be nothing; but there are——” “What?” “The circumstances of that abduction.” “What circumstances?” “Oh! you know very well what I mean, my lord.” “No, curse me if I do.” “There is—in truth, it is difficult to speak it.” “There is?” “Well, there is that devil of a box!” Monk colored visibly. “Well, I have forgotten it.”