“Know him! I should think so: you owe his father thirty thousand crowns.” “Ah, indeed! so it’s that worthy fellow from Orleans.” “Whom you promised an appointment in Monsieur’s household; not the jealous husband, but the other.” “Well, then, since your friend Malicorne is such an inventive genius, let him find me a means of being adored by Monsieur, and a pretext to make my peace with him.” “Very good: I’ll talk to him about it.” “But who is that coming?” “The Vicomte de Bragelonne.” “Raoul! yes, it is he,” said De Guiche, as he hastened forward to meet him. “You here, Raoul?” said De Guiche. “Yes: I was looking for you to say farewell,” replied Raoul, warmly, pressing the comte’s hand. “How do you do, Monsieur Manicamp?” “How is this, vicomte, you are leaving us?” “Yes, a mission from the king.” “Where are you going?” “To London. On leaving you, I am going to Madame; she has a letter to give me for his majesty, Charles II.” “You will find her alone, for Monsieur has gone out; gone to bathe, in fact.” “In that case, you, who are one of Monsieur’s gentlemen in waiting, will undertake to make my excuses to him. I would have waited in order to receive any directions he might have to give me, if the desire for my immediate departure had not been intimated to me by M. Fouquet on behalf of his majesty.” Manicamp touched De Guiche’s elbow, saying, “There’s a pretext for you.” “What?” “M. de Bragelonne’s excuses.” “A weak pretext,” said De Guiche. “An excellent one, if Monsieur is not angry with you; but a paltry one if he bears you ill-will.” “You are right, Manicamp; a pretext, however poor it may be, is all I require. And so, a pleasant journey to you, Raoul!” And the two friends took a warm leave of each other. Five minutes afterwards Raoul entered Madame’s apartments, as Mademoiselle de Montalais had begged him to do. Madame was still seated at the table where she had written her letter. Before her was still burning the rose-colored taper she had used to seal it. Only in her deep reflection, for Madame seemed to be buried in thought, she had forgotten to extinguish the light. Bragelonne was a very model of elegance in every way; it was impossible to see him once without always remembering him; and not only had Madame seen him once, but it will not be forgotten he was one of the very first who had gone to meet her, and had accompanied her from Le Havre to Paris. Madame preserved therefore an excellent recollection of him. “Ah! M. de Bragelonne,” she said to him, “you are going to see my brother, who will be delighted to pay to the son a portion of the debt of gratitude he contracted with the father.” “The Comte de la Fere, Madame, has been abundantly recompensed for the little service he had the happiness to render the king, by the kindness manifested towards him, and it is I who will have to convey to his majesty the assurance of the respect, devotion, and gratitude of both father and son.” “Do you know my brother?”