“Monsieur,” said the king at length, “you spoke the word forgetfulness. I have heard nothing but that word; I will reply, then, to it alone. Others have perhaps been able to forget, but I have not, and the proof is, that I remember that one day of riot, that one day when the furious people, raging and roaring as the sea, invaded the royal palace; that one day when I feigned sleep in my bed, one man alone, naked sword in hand, concealed behind my curtain, watched over my life, ready to risk his own for me, as he had before risked it twenty times for the lives of my family. Was not the gentleman, whose name I then demanded, called M. d’Artagnan? say, monsieur.” “Your majesty has a good memory,” replied the officer, coldly. “You see, then,” continued the king, “if I have such remembrances of my childhood, what an amount I may gather in the age of reason.” “Your majesty has been richly endowed by God,” said the officer, in the same tone. “Come, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” continued Louis, with feverish agitation, “ought you not to be as patient as I am? Ought you not to do as I do? Come!” “And what do you do, sire?” “I wait.” “Your majesty may do so, because you are young; but I, sire, have not time to wait; old age is at my door, and death is behind it, looking into the very depths of my house. Your majesty is beginning life, its future is full of hope and fortune; but I, sire, I am on the other side of the horizon, and we are so far from each other, that I should never have time to wait till your majesty came up to me.” Louis made another turn in his apartment, still wiping the moisture from his brow, in a manner that would have terrified his physicians, if his physicians had witnessed the state his majesty was in. “It is very well, monsieur,” said Louis XIV., in a sharp voice; “you are desirous of having your discharge, and you shall have it. You offer me your resignation of the rank of lieutenant of the musketeers?” “I deposit it humbly at your majesty’s feet, sire.” “That is sufficient. I will order your pension.” “I shall have a thousand obligations to your majesty.” “Monsieur,” said the king, with a violent effort, “I think you are losing a good master.” “And I am sure of it, sire.” “Shall you ever find such another?” “Oh, sire! I know that your majesty is alone in the world; therefore will I never again take service with any king upon earth, and will never again have other master than myself.” “You say so?” “I swear so, your majesty.” “I shall remember that word, monsieur.” D’Artagnan bowed. “And you know I have a good memory,” said the king. “Yes, sire, and yet I should desire that that memory should fail your majesty in this instance, in order that you might forget all the miseries I have been forced to spread before your eyes. Your majesty is so much above the poor and the mean that I hope——”